Crowning Tristan
by Sedri
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.
1. Prologue & Chapter One

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

Author's Notes: This story is based mainly on the film and is set in the movieverse, but where possible, I use additional information from the novel – place names, descriptions and so on – though there are exceptions. For instance, I have made Dunstan a book-keeper, as a desk job seemed to fit his clothes and mannerisms better than a farmer. Also, I have given Humphrey the surname "Banks" as his father is supposed to be a banker, and given a name to the guard at the wall – Samuel Edwards.

Many, many thanks to my two lovely beta-readers: Mererid, who helped me out from the very beginning, and Anna Fay, who has stuck by me for nearly two years now. Ladies, I could _never_ have done this without you.

Revised and reposted April 2012.

* * *

**Crowning Tristan  
**by Sedri

* * *

_Prologue_

On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, Victoria Forester woke to a bright, sunny warmth reflecting softly from the wood of her bedroom. The white curtains glowed as light peeked in sharp bursts around their edges, and from outside came the faint, familiar sounds of morning activity in the village. She smiled and rolled over, stretching a little, drowsy and comfortable as she considered the day ahead.

It would be wonderful. Today she would become engaged.

With a little squeal of delight, Victoria pulled her blanket higher and took a moment to simply be lazy, curling up on her pillows. A silly smile was fixed on her cheeks.

Humphrey Banks was exactly the sort of man for her. Handsome, courteous, talented – wealthy, of course – able and willing to buy her the best of everything. They were a beautiful couple, and though Tristan had brought her wildflowers and a nice picnic, Humphrey bought her a dozen roses and dinner on fine china.

Oh, Tristan. Well, it was sweet of him to try so hard – charming, really – but they both knew he just wasn't the same as Humphrey. Still, for the past week Victoria had found herself smiling secretively every time someone mentioned Tristan's name. _Where did he go, Mrs Brown?_ she thought to say. _Why, he went to bring me a star. _

Victoria laughed. A star! That would have been nice. Poor, sweet, silly Tristan. How long would it take him to come back? And really, where was he? If that star fell into the land beyond the wall, he couldn't possibly reach it. ...Could he? No, no, of course not, and certainly not in a week. He'd have to give up eventually, but that was all right; better that he be late. There was no need for Humphrey to embarrass the poor boy yet again.

Ah... Humphrey. And a ring from Ipswich. Victoria stretched out her left hand, admiring her skin as it glowed in the light. She pictured a lovely ring on her finger, gold band glimmering as the stone twinkled and sparkled in the sun. Would it be a sapphire, to match her eyes? Maybe even a diamond? Or perhaps both! Small sapphires circling the diamond... and emeralds, maybe...

At last it occurred to Victoria that as long as she stayed in bed, she would never find out.

No more than two minutes later there was a knock on her door. Victoria fussed over her hair and nightgown, wishing she had more time to dress, but did it matter? Soon they would be married and anyway, Humphrey had brought her midnight gifts before. She opened the door.

It was Tristan. "Happy birthday," he said.

But... this wasn't the same Tristan that left Wall a week ago. He looked so... so much _better_. Gentlemanly. Dashing. His hair had grown – somehow – and he looked older, but he still had that same sweet smile.

"Tristan – what happened to you?" Had he given up so soon? Or had he actually managed it? Had he really gone into the land beyond and _somehow_–?

"I found the star."

For a moment, Victoria marvelled, awestruck. "I can't believe you did it..." Then eagerness took over. "Where's my star?" she demanded. "Can I see it? Is it beautiful?"

Tristan smiled and reached into his coat pocket. "Yes."

A star! A real star, all her own! Oh, wouldn't that be better than a diamond on her ring! Just a small part, of course; a proper ring could not be _too_ heavy. The rest could be made into a necklace or bracelet – or both! Did stars still shine after they'd fallen? She would be married wearing jewels that glowed!

Tristan offered her a folded handkerchief.

She stared. "Well it's awfully small." A ring and earrings, perhaps.

"Well, that's just a little piece," Tristan assured her. "A token for your birthday."

But suddenly the token didn't interest her anymore; the fact that he'd _crossed_ the _wall_ for her... that did.

"Well then, forget about the star," said Victoria, stepping closer and looking him over, running a hand up his arm. This was a Tristan she wanted; so far from the puppyish shopboy, he seemed to have suddenly become a real man, and a man handsome enough to rival even Humphrey – how had she never seen that before? Victoria was a decent woman, not all insensitive; she appreciated the effort he'd made to be worthy of her. Yes, she decided, she could marry this Tristan.

"It's not the star that I want." She smiled temptingly. "You _know_ what I want."

The look in his eyes was unreadable. "Yes," he said. "I do."

Victoria leaned back dramatically, allowing him to hold her up just as a romantic prince should before kissing the princess, and waited, waited...

"You want to grow up–"

Her eyes snapped open.

"–and get over yourself."

"Wha–?"

Then, without warning or courtesy, she was _dropped_ onto the dirty street.

She stared at Tristan, who straightened and looked down at her as though he hadn't just done something outrageously wrong. She couldn't take it in; Tristan – sweet, eager, shopboy Tristan, however handsome he had become – was _rejecting_ her. Victoria was stunned, speechless.

Suddenly another _thump_ came from the corner, and there was– "Humphrey," Tristan said pleasantly.

Humphrey! With a large red parcel – for her, surely... Victoria smiled brightly, but it was forced. She toyed with the handkerchief as her Humphrey drew his sword–

But then Tristan swung _his_ sword – where had he gotten it? – and Humphrey's cool confidence vanished. "...Ah."

Victoria hurried to unfold the cloth. Even if it wasn't an engagement gift, it was hers now – he'd _given_ it to her – and no humiliation would take away her very own _star_.

But... there was no hard shape in the cloth. No rock. Nothing to put in a ring. Flicking back the fabric, she stared in furious horror at the 'prize' for which she had succumbed, then snapped her head up as Tristan cheerfully declared them to be a "perfect couple" and offered his congratulations.

"Well, why would I want this? Just a measly handful of _stardust_!"

The men looked at her as she threw it back at Tristan. He was horrified. Dust sprinkled from his hands, sparkling as it fell, and he said something Victoria couldn't make out. "...can't cross the wall."

_What_?

Tristan took off running, vanishing around the corner within seconds. He left behind two very confused, humiliated people, and a decidedly unromantic mood.

"Victoria?" Humphrey said at last. "Are you all right? May I help you up?"

Always the gentleman. Victoria accepted his hand, smiling as he fussed over the dust on her clothes. "I'm quite fine, Humphrey, thank you. You're very thoughtful."

He was smiling at her now, holding her hands, but his cheeks were tinged with red. It didn't suit him. Had she known it, Victoria herself was dishevelled and mussed, but Humphrey always made her feel like a princess.

She and Humphrey stood in awkward silence for a long moment, until at last he said, "Quite early for visitors."

His tone was mild, but Victoria was ashamed. She could _not_ allow Humphrey to be misled. After all, she'd never been unfaithful to him, had she? Just indulged a poor boy's adoration. "Tristan brought me a present," she said. "For my birthday. He said it was the shooting star that fell last week."

Humphrey snorted, annoyed – with Tristan? "Shooting stars don't land, Victoria. They're just lights in the sky. Don't believe everything shopboys tell you."

Now thoroughly humiliated, Victoria had no wish but to go back to bed and start the day over. She couldn't meet his eyes, and prayed that Humphrey would understand. "I should change my clothes," she said at last.

"I'll wait here."

Victoria nodded and walked in. At the door, she suddenly turned around. "I thought he deserved a kiss," she said quickly. "For bringing me a present. I didn't... I only _thanked_ him, Humphrey, I swear. You know he's always been in love with me and–"

Her words were rushed with embarrassment, but it was worth it when Humphrey shook his head, to interrupt, and smiled. "I understand." He stepped closer and kissed her cheek. "I have a surprise for you. Will you come for a walk with me?"

The last 'surprise' from a man had been cause for disaster. Still, she smiled and nodded, then hurried in before anything else could go wrong.

* * *

Despite its bitter start, most of Victoria's day went quite well. When she emerged, dressed properly with her hair brushed, Humphrey had greeted her as though their earlier encounter had never been. The red-wrapped gift had indeed been for her, and was a collection of chocolates and expensive fabrics from Ipswich. Humphrey's surprise, of course, was no surprise at all. They walked across the quiet, grassy paths until reaching a suitably beautiful spot, where Humphrey had produced a lovely ring and proposed.

It was a diamond. A very _small_ diamond.

Victoria accepted.

* * *

Act One: Wall

* * *

_Chapter One_

For as long as anyone could remember, the village of Wall had been a slow, quiet place where people lived out their slow, quiet, and largely happy lives. Aside from the minor if mysterious problem of that ancient wall nearby, very little of interest had happened in Wall for several hundred years.

On one bright and cheerful day in April of 1896, all that changed.

It was a day that began calmly, like so many others. It was the day that Humphrey Banks made his grand and very expected proposal to Miss Forester, and but for a poor shopboy named Tristan Thorn, their engagement would have been the talk of the town for weeks. It would, of course, have been forgotten eventually, and after the wedding no one would have cared at all, but what was remembered instead... well, that was something they talked about for _decades_.

What was remembered instead actually began rather quietly, shortly after Victoria and Humphrey began their romantic stroll. The old man who had been on guard duty – a Mr Samuel Edwards, who somehow enjoyed the duty and filled much of the village roster – left his post early, stumbling distractedly through town. More people were awake then than had been when Tristan ran through, and a few paused to wonder why Mr Edwards looked so ashen. On the other hand, no one found it odd that he should be knocking on the door of Mr Dunstan Thorn; Mr Edwards had taken a liking to that family some fifty years ago, striking up a friendship with Dunstan's father, and it continued quietly through the generations in the background of Wall society.

That morning, Dunstan was running late for work, distracted as he had been for the past week. He still wasn't used to living in an empty house; Tristan had been brought to him only weeks after his own father's death, and there had always been someone else walking over that creaking stair or helping to make breakfast. Dunstan didn't care to be alone, but more so he worried about his son; clever though Tristan was, he was wandering through a world of magic, and magic, he knew, could be dangerous. He could only hope that Tristan's mother would be able to protect him.

The knock came as a complete surprise.

It couldn't be Tristan – Tristan would just walked in. Frowning, Dunstan checked his pocket watch again; he really was quite late. Mr Banks genuinely liked his bookkeeper, but wasn't known for his patience. Dunstan opened the door. "Samuel?"

The old man stumbled in and settled heavily in a kitchen chair.

"Sam," Dunstan said, "I really don't have the time to–"

"What did you see over there, Dunstan?" Mr Edwards wheezed, head in hands, sounding very old indeed. "What's really out there?"

Dunstan frowned again, worried. He closed the door and took the opposite chair. "It's very different," he said slowly, "I saw many things. I can't explain most of it. I don't really _know_ more than anyone else in town. What's happened?"

"Oh..." moaned Mr Edwards, "Dunstan, I wish I knew. There was shouting and magic and I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I came to ask you."

"Why would I know? I was only there once. Did something happen on the other side?"

Mr Edwards looked startled, and it was all the more worrying. "He didn't tell you?"

"Who – Tristan?" Dunstan felt his blood run cold. "I haven't seen him since he left town."

"But he came back from the village! He appeared in the meadow at dawn and ran back through less than an hour later – he _must_ have told you who they were. Never, in hundreds of years, has anyone from over there–"

"_What happened?_"

Bowing to the obvious urgency, Mr Edwards said, "I don't know – I just heard voices, saw bits and pieces... Something about stars and death and a witch shot green fire and captured them–"

"Captured who? Tristan?"

"No, Tristan went after them–"

Dunstan shot to his feet and snatched up a coat. "Where did he go? Hurry, Sam – tell me where he went!"

"He took a horse," Mr Edwards said quickly, "I saw him riding north. You'll never catch him, Dunstan!" the old man called, following Dunstan out the door. "He was riding full gallop!"

It was no use and he knew it, yet Dunstan still hurried to the infamous wall, not quite running but unable to keep to a normal pace. He settled for a brisk walk and ignored the greetings of his neighbours. Without doubt, something had gone awfully wrong with Tristan's visit to his mother, and whatever had happened was out of his league – out of both their leagues. Beyond that of anyone in the village, really. There was nothing he could do, but the father in him just couldn't go to work and spend the day writing in Mr Banks' account books.

The wall wasn't far away. The trees between it and the fields were little more than a screening barrier, and Dunstan arrived quickly. Not, of course, quickly enough. Tristan was long gone, and if Mr Edwards hadn't said so, Dunstan would never have known that his son had been there at all. He sighed, feeling tired and unreasonably _old_.

He looked around and walked down to the wall, to the yellow caravan beyond. Stepping through the gap, he paused a moment and realised – _yes_, this was the same caravan that held, for him, very pleasant memories. Dunstan hurried to climb up, looking inside with the vain hope that the old witch might also have left, that perhaps _she_ was still...

But no. There was nothing alive inside – nothing human, anyway, and if Tristan had raced off following some witches' battle, it must have been because he'd found his mother here, and she'd been the person captured. But why?

Aware that literally anything inside could be magical, Dunstan backed away. He looked around the jumbled mess, hoping for any sort of clue, but could only conclude that the driver had been taking some rather spectacular risks. Beyond that, it was all guesswork; he knew so little of this world. For heaven's sake, he didn't even know his lover's _name_.

For lack of anything better to do, he paced, circling the caravan and looking around – mainly north, occasionally east. Eastwards was the only place he actually knew, the market town where he'd spent a single night, but there was no reason to think Tristan would go there, nor that he could find help there.

No, Dunstan concluded, clenching his fists. There was nothing he could do but wait in a place where his son would be able to find him. His pacing turned to frustrated, childish stomps–

Which ended abruptly when he found himself standing on the burnt outline of a headless human body. He jumped back in shock, praying it had just been his imagination, but no, the figure was unmistakably a person. Arms, a broad middle and a skirt, with two protrusions that could have been feet. And– Oh, God. There was the head. Or the burnt circle that was left of it, a few feet away.

Dunstan liked to think he had a strong stomach, and in all fairness, he did react better than others might have – no nausea or hysterics, just a shuddering acceptance – but he felt cold and ill, and lost. Helpless. His _son_ was out there, possibly chasing whoever had done this...

Once, as a boy, Dunstan had been witness to a parent losing their child. Old Mrs Harper, already a widow, had lost her grown daughter to a riding accident. As his mother had been a friend of Mrs Harper, Dunstan had been raised with regular visits from the woman, and had always known her to be a jolly old lady. After the funeral she rarely smiled again, and when she did, when she was helping a young father learn to care for his baby boy, it was always a half-smile, a pained smile; a smile that was twisted by memories.

Only now did Dunstan come close to truly understanding how she felt.

_No!_ he scolded himself. No, Tristan was not dead. Not yet.

Wrenching his mind away from morbid thoughts, Dunstan leaned against the wall, searching for anything else to think about. Once again he reviewed what Sam Edwards had said, trying to picture it, trying not to think of his son fighting murderous magical women, and something didn't quite fit. What was it he'd said? _He came back from the village._ That was it. _He appeared in the meadow at dawn and ran back through less than an hour later._

Tristan had come _back_ – back _from_ town. Running. But he hadn't been to see his father. An hour was long enough to get anywhere in Wall, and Dunstan had been home, where he always was at that time. Where had Tristan been?

Infused with purpose, Dunstan left the caravan behind, ignoring the hoof prints and burnt grass as he returned to Wall. His mind spun with possibilities.

Tristan had almost certainly gone to see a person. Nothing else would have been so important as to come first if he had – as Sam had implied – come into Wall without any particular fuss or hurry, and if something was already wrong Tristan wouldn't have gone to church to pray. Neither of them were particularly devout followers, and Tristan rarely turned to God or Reverend Myles for help.

No, it had to be a person, someone he had to talk to. Dunstan ducked under a large branch as he marched out of the thin woods, watching the village houses grow larger as he crossed the fields. He silently listed everyone in town bar himself that Tristan was close to. Frank Monday came to mind first – Tristan's closest and only real friend, they both worked in Frank's father's shop. Mr John Monday was unlikely, but he was friendly with Dunstan and could certainly be asked. Miss Victoria another option, as was Mrs Harper. But there was no reason for Tristan to seek any of them before greeting his own father.

Dunstan peeled off his coat as he hurried back across the fields; the sun was warm and he was moving fast. Early-rising farmers furrowed their brows as well as their fields when they saw him, wondering what could drive quiet Mr Thorn all the way out here. "His boy, probably," they said to each other. "Poor man's wonderin' what happened to Tristan."

* * *

Mr Monday was grumbling as he puttered about in his shop, making lists and filling orders while it was still early enough for customers to be scarce. The breeze from the east was making his fireplace flicker. He frowned at it.

Calling on his son to check an inventory, John was surprised to see Dunstan Thorn hurry in looking dishevelled, and more so when he turned to the boy instead. "Frank," he said, sounding a little out of breath, "has Tristan been here? Have you seen him at all?"

Frank, a stocky boy with a very round, good-natured face, just shook his head. Mr Thorn turned to the father. "John? Was he here this morning?"

John shook his white head. "No, but Charlie Banks just left," he said, and Dunstan winced at his employer's name. "Said you were late again."

Dunstan shook his head. "That was once, three days ago, and if Charles comes by again, you can tell him I'm not coming. Something's happened to Tristan – ask him what he'd do if it was Humphrey."

He turned on his heel and left the shop without another word, neglecting the second polite farewell of his morning.

* * *

Mr Edwards, meanwhile, had left Dunstan's house feeling no less frazzled than when he'd entered it. At a loss, without purpose – for what use was a guard who _couldn't__ stop _people from crossing? – Mr Edwards had resolved to calm his nerves with a good, long drink.

The _Seventh Magpie_ was the only tavern Wall had, and it was quiet; just past noon, few were about bar Mr Bromios, who served his guest with mild concern. Mr Edwards didn't offer an explanation for his obvious troubles, and when asked he merely looked up and said, "Peter, we should repair that wall. Seal it off."

Mr Bromios, puzzled, went and asked his wife what she thought it might mean. "I don't know," she said, "but I'll ask Mary when I'm at the shop. We need two bags of flour, right? Not just one?"

He answered with a nod and off went Mrs Bromios, whose queries would only add fuel to an already blazing fire of rumours.

* * *

As Victoria and Humphrey returned from their delightful little walk, her left arm tucked neatly in his elbow and her new ring displayed for all to see, they stepped into the village square with all the airs of royalty. There should have been awed appreciation, sighs of envy from the other girls, congratulations from passing wives and handshakes from the gentlemen... but there weren't.

Instead the villagers were already gossiping intently, and the first person to speak to them didn't offer his good wishes, or even notice the ring. Instead Frank Monday said, "Victoria! Did you see Tristan this morning? Ma says you were talking to him but no one else's seen him and something's wrong and–"

"Miss Forester?"

Another distinct lack of compliments came from Dunstan Thorn, who appeared out of nowhere and shooed Frank away. If he saw the ring, he ignored it. "Miss Forester, I _must_ know if you've seen Tristan."

He looked horribly afraid, realised Victoria, and the idea briefly robbed her of speech. Tristan had been rude, yes, but if he'd been _hurt_...

"Yes, Mr Thorn, he was here," Humphrey smoothly said for her, patting her hand protectively. "Your son offered my fiancée a gift for her birthday."

Dunstan looked unconvinced. "Why did he leave?" When Humphrey couldn't answer he looked back at Victoria. "Miss Forester, he may be in danger. Tell me why he was running."

"I don't know," she said. "He wasn't making much sense. He said something about not being able to cross the wall. He was going to try," she added helpfully. "Last week; he said he was going to bring me a fallen star."

This made no sense to Dunstan. "Tristan has crossed that wall three times."

"Actually," said Humphrey thoughtfully, with an uncommon air of earnest helpfulness, "I believe he said that someone _else_ couldn't cross the wall."

Confused, Dunstan shook his head slowly, thanked them politely, and left, thinking deeply. Victoria watched him go. "I don't understand this, Humphrey."

"We needn't worry," he said calmly, loftily. "No doubt Mr Thorn worries for his child; it's quite natural behaviour for any parent. Your father was much the same when I asked for your hand – though of course he agreed."

Victoria smiled brilliantly, maybe at his over-educated speech or simply at the reminder. Still, her happiness was ruined as they continued their walk. Here they passed a farmer talking of how "he's not been seen in a week!", and there, a woman with her groceries who said, "No one knows who his mother was; Dunstan won't talk about it. Gypsy, I'd wager." Nearby was Mrs Bromios: "...actually left his post! Can you imagine, Mary dear? Something's got him worried, something about that wall..." And there, Mr Brown, whose farm was closest to the wall: "Not sure what it was – just a strange greenish light, really, but nothing I've ever seen before."

Humphrey merely took Victoria's hand and smiled, and they continued their walk, talking to block out the gossip of their neighbours.

At home, Dunstan Thorn knelt by his son's bed and prayed.


	2. Chapter Two

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Two_

A world away, deep in a dark canyon, three people stood in the grand but shattered hall of Carnadine. The silver steps and black candles were smooth in the poor light, and splinters of broken metal glittered in uneven piles. Glass crunched beneath their feet, mixed with bits of hay and the bones and entrails of many unlucky animals. The human bodies that sagged in three places gave off the strong, coppery scent of blood, and dust, flung everywhere by the pulverised mirrors, floated gently in the air.

No one noticed.

A faint echo still rang around the room and in the minds of the living. _The last surviving male heir of the Stormhold bloodline. It's you, Tristan._

Tristan stared at the ruby while the facts tried hard to connect in his mind. Incomplete, they failed. "I don't understand."

"That stone will only ever acknowledge the blood of my family," said his mother. "It wouldn't be here if my father were alive. Now Septimus is dead, and if I know him, he's killed all of our brothers. That leaves only you."

"Wait... _you're_ his mother?" Yvaine asked, smiling and glancing between them.

The other woman only had time to nod, smiling widely and clearly overjoyed, before Tristan asked, "He's your brother?" gesturing at Septimus, and then realised, "You... you really are a princess."

Her eyes dimmed a little. "Your father thought I was joking," she realised, not entirely surprised. "Yes, I am. And that makes you the heir to my father's throne." Her face broke into another smile. "Oh, Tristan, I've missed you _so_ much." She stepped forward and hugged him again, and he returned it automatically, speechless.

Over her shoulder he saw Yvaine, who just smiled, happy for them. She wasn't looking at him any differently. Tristan, on the other hand, held his mother tightly as he tried hard to swallow what had been said. He knew that even his father had never known much about this woman – that she'd been fond of jokes was about all that Dunstan had able to share. Now, as they pulled apart, he had to ask a very awkward question. "Mother..." He hesitated, bit his lip. "Mother, what's your name?"

She looked shocked. He glanced down, away. "But your father – Dunstan, didn't he...?"

Her face was a battleground of sorrow and pain and Tristan, who hated to upset anyone, hurried to say, "He wasn't sure. He said everything happened so fast, like a dream..." A little bit defensive, Tristan added, "He did his best."

"But my letter – didn't I sign–? No," she scowled. "I didn't." She gave a long sigh and then looked up. She touched his face, staring right into his eyes. "_Una_," she said. "My name is Una."

"Una," said Tristan, tasting the name. He smiled, and it seemed lower all of her defences. "Mother," he said. "I missed you. We both did."

She stroked his hair. "I wanted so much to watch you grow up. But even if Sal had allowed it, I couldn't have kept you from your father, and if my brothers had found us..." She shook her head. "My father might have let you live, but you would have been such a different man. He raised us all with tales of how he murdered his way to the throne, and as soon as my brothers came of age, they started to die. To think of you being taught to kill for your crown..."

Una shook her head again, not seeing how Tristan had stiffened. "You were safe in England. It was selfish of me to ask you to come, but I'm glad you did." She smiled again and Tristan tried to return it as she cupped his cheek. "This is so wonderful," she said. "I feel like I'm dreaming. You're here, I'm free, the Lilim witches are dead, my _brothers_ are dead, and you're going to be the first benevolent king in _centuries_." Una beamed. "I'm _so_ proud of you."

But Tristan was shaking his head. "Mother, I... I can't be a _king_," he said. "Even if I wanted to, I don't know how. I don't know anything about Stormhold. You do it," he said, pressing the ruby into her hand. "If it wasn't for me you'd be queen anyway."

Una blinked, twice, then said, "Tradition just can't be ignored, Tristan. The noblemen of Stormhold are always seeking more power; they wouldn't just stand by and let me take over. A woman cannot rule, not when there's a male heir, and anyone who sees this stone will know a grown man is alive. There is no one else, Tristan. We need you."

Tristan said nothing, just looked away. Una watched him. Yvaine watched them both, her keen eyes seeing better than either of them that Tristan just wasn't ready for this – it was just too much, too fast. Una was used to being royalty, but to Tristan it had to be as unreachable as... well, a star. When he'd met Yvaine it had taken quite a while for him to accept what she was without that irritating (if rather sweet) small-town-boy awe. Now the crown was coming to him as well, and it was too sudden. He wouldn't take it, not like this, but Una didn't look ready to back down either – she just didn't understand why _not_. To see them on the verge of arguing soon after finding each other was painful to watch.

Yvaine was tired of watching.

"I hate to interrupt," she said, not sounding sorry at all, "but this isn't the time to talk about it. Your brother is bleeding all over the floor."

They turned to her, and the tension broke. "Yes, of course," said Una, and she walked over to where Septimus lay ignored. Tristan followed, but not before Yvaine took his hand and offered a reassuring smile. He squeezed hers in return.

Septimus lay crumpled on one side under pieces of a chandelier. Whatever spell the witch had cast with that doll must have been broken, for he lay limp and bled like any other man. Yvaine fought down an urge to gag; she'd seen a lot of bloody battlefields, but had never been so close to death. The stench was overpowering and the gaunt, white face was eerily still. Una wasn't at all upset – in fact, she was relieved and grateful. Had Septimus lived, he would probably be trying to kill Tristan at this very moment. Or have already managed it.

"We should bury him," Tristan said quietly.

"Not here," said his mother. "It's traditional to bury everyone in the family tombs to prove they're actually dead, but for now we'll have to take him to Market Town – we'll never reach the citadel in time. Sal had a preservation charm that should work well enough on him."

Yvaine made a face. "We should wrap him in something."

"Prince Primus had a lot of luggage on his carriage," suggested Tristan. "He said he wanted to be prepared. There might be something there."

"Primus?" Una sounded surprised. "I wondered why the witch had my father's carriage. You met Primus?"

Tristan nodded as they surrounded Septimus, lifting away the debris to reach his body, which lay in a pool of dark blue blood. Eager for anything less morbid to think about, Tristan described meeting Primus as they hauled the body outside. "He seemed decent. He let me ride with him and talked about his quest – said he didn't want to kill anyone. He warned me to stay away from Septimus."

"Good advice even at the best of times," Una grunted, adjusting her grip on the prince's leg.

They reached the doors and Una let go for a moment so she could pull them further open. Yvaine gave him an odd look and quietly asked, "You ran into a moving carriage?"

In a hushed a voice Tristan replied, "I'm not the one who confessed true love to a _mouse_."

Yvaine kicked him, blushing. It didn't hurt.

Once outside, they put Septimus down on the stone path and Una, taking a moment to sigh, continued where she left off. "He was the worst of my brothers. I'm sure he's the one who killed Quintus; he was only fifteen, and Quintus had made some nasty joke that insulted him. The next day there was an axe in his head."

Yvaine grimaced and Tristan turned a little paler. He climbed up to the driver's seat and began opening cases. Sensing his mood, and pleased that he was so unused to death and treachery, Una added, "Primus was always the good one. I liked him. How did he die?"

It was Yvaine who answered, and her brief description led to Una ask about the inn and the witch and how they got away, and in the meantime Tristan found a blanket and a number of handkerchiefs in one trunk and climbed down. They spread out the blanket and lifted Septimus onto it. They stuffed his wounds with the smaller cloths to keep the rest of his blood from leaking out and folded his arms into a more serene position. Then they wrapped him up, talking all the while.

"Una," Yvaine asked suddenly, "how did you know crossing the wall would kill me?"

Una raised an eyebrow. "Well, it's common knowledge that magical tools don't work on the other side, and that highly magical creatures can't survive there. I learned more from my tutors at the palace. There are some ancient scrolls about stars preserved in our archives, too – I used to love reading them." She smiled slightly and added, "My tutors liked to think that they're proof of the old legends about the star who fell to Earth to teach us magic."

Yvaine stopped folding and furrowed her brow. "Selena?" she asked. "But... if she knew, why didn't she tell me?"

Tristan looked puzzled. "Who's Selena?"

"My sister – one of them. She fell a few thousand years ago. I asked her to tell me about it when she returned. She _built_ the wall; she must have known."

Yvaine was frowning, sitting back on one of the large boulders that littered the canyon floor as she looked up at the sky. Una, though intrigued by all this, brought their attention back to a more practical problem. "Where are we going to put him?"

She was looking from the wrapped body to the carriage, particularly the luggage rack, which was already full. "Inside, in the foot space?" said Tristan. "It's the only way he won't fall out."

Yvaine said, "I'm _not_ sitting next to him."

Tristan chuckled. "There's room for two on the bench, and I can ride the horse."

As it turned out, all three of them could squeeze onto the seat without too much discomfort, which gave the two unhitched horses a chance to rest – they had, after all, run at full gallop for quite a distance without rest or water. Tristan tethered their reins to the back of the carriage. But as it was difficult to navigate the steep, narrow path up the canyon walls, Tristan spent most of the journey in front anyway, guiding the horses on foot.

So it wasn't until they'd reached the grassy plain and he'd rejoined the women that there was a chance to say, "I know we're going to Market Town, Mother, and you want to go to the city, but I have to go back to Wall. Father will be worried."

"I'd like to see your father again," said Una. "Would you mind if I came with you?"

"No, I'm sure he'd love to see you. But... Yvaine?"

The star looked at him with a guarded expression. "I don't mind waiting a while, Tristan, unless you're planning to stay there. And you're not, are you?"

"No," he promised, taking her hand. "I never wanted to stay in Wall all my life, and now I have a reason not to." He smiled. Yvaine glowed and leaned closer.

"So you _will_ come to the city with me?" Una asked, blissfully unaware that she was ruining the mood.

Tristan looked away again. He sighed and pulled the ruby from his pocket, staring at it. "Mother, I don't want to make things difficult for you, but I _can't_ be a king. I just don't know how. I don't even know how big Stormhold is, much less what's in it, or who's in it, or it's history or how everything works or... Mother, before this week I never even left home. I want to live on this side of the wall, yes, but you can't ask me to be something I'm not."

"I wouldn't ask if I had a choice," said Una, gently now. "The fact is that I don't. If I go back without you, even if I marry and have a son right away, there will be no one to rule until your brother is grown. Our laws forbid me to be anything more than a regent, and every nobleman in the kingdom will fight – and kill – to become my husband. It's even possible that they'll challenge my claim. Tristan, it could start a civil war." She looked at him, very serious, almost ignoring the reins in her hands. "I'm your mother, Tristan, and I love you, but I have a responsibility to my people and I don't want to see them caught in the middle of that sort of bloodshed. I can't make you come and be our king, but I am begging you to."

Tristan closed his eyes tight and turned away. Yvaine, who sat in the middle, squeezed his shoulder. Tristan held her hand, drawing comfort from it. "What you mean," he said to Una, "is that it's my responsibility, too."

"My mother used to say that those who have the ability to act have the responsibility to act." Una sounded a little resentful. "I know it's unfair to ask you, but yes, I think it is."

"Mother..." he looked at her again, hand gently closing around the stone. "Mother, I have no great plans for my future. I always wanted to travel beyond Wall and I've done that, and there's so much more of Stormhold to see. Living here would be wonderful, and if I can help anyone, I'd do it. But that doesn't change the fact that I don't know _how_."

"Oh Tristan, I'll _teach_ you," said Una, and Yvaine took the reins from her before the horses, unattended, could wander too far off track. "Did you think I'd just throw you in to see if you could swim? I'll help. I'll be there every step of the way. I'll make any decisions you want, but you have to be the figurehead; you have to be the one they believe is in charge. It's all about image, Tristan, and no one will think it odd that you ask me for advice. If it takes you years to learn, that's all right too."

He relaxed a little bit, nodding, but something important was still bothering him. Squashed together on the bench, Yvaine could feel that every muscle in his body was tense. Suspecting that she knew why, Yvaine announced, "I'm hungry."

They looked at her, baffled.

"Do you think your brother packed food?" she asked politely.

Una blinked. "If he thought Septimus might poison him, probably."

"Let's stop and find out."

It was glaringly obvious that Yvaine wished to speak with one of them, and she didn't even try to be subtle when they came to a halt by a small pond, to which the horses were led for a drink. She took Tristan's hand and pulled him out of sight behind the carriage, and Una kept her distance.

She wasted no time. "What are you afraid of?"

Tristan sighed and leaned against the wheel, and Yvaine felt guilty as she realised just how tired he must be. She slid her arms around his chest, and smiled as he held her. The tension drained from him. "I'm afraid I'll fail," he said at last. "I'm afraid I'll make a mistake and somebody will suffer for it. I'm afraid... mostly, that I'll disappoint her." He was embarrassed by the last, but it was true.

Yvaine turned her head to look straight at him. "And?"

"And..." He stepped back, spreading his arms wide. "Yvaine, you know me. _Look_ at me. Can you see me giving orders and wearing jewels any more than you think I could kill someone? I'm from a village of farmers and I know _nothing_ about magic. How can I rule a magical kingdom?"

"You're not a shopboy, Tristan. You were never meant to _be_ a shopboy."

"Just because my ancestors–"

"It's not that you were born into that family," she said scornfully, "it's who you are. Remember what I said? People aren't what they seem. Look at what you've done this past week – you've saved my life, twice, and helped defeat some of the worst witches in history. You're a hero."

"I was just trying to do the right thing–"

"And what's life except an endlessly attempt to get things right?" said Yvaine. "Tristan, I've watched people down here for a long time, and I promise you – no king or emperor that ever did good was always sure of himself. Some of the greatest leaders were never trained for anything but they turned out to be the best for the job. I think you can do it."

His eyes searched hers. Very serious, he asked, "Really?"

"Well," she said with exaggerated thoughtfulness, "I _think_ it might be difficult to be a worse king than your murderous uncles."

Tristan laughed, and Yvaine smiled.

"Yes," she told him. "I think you can do it. Just promise me you'll consider it."

Maybe it was just something about her presence, but Tristan suddenly felt lighter. He nodded. "I promise," he said. "I'll think about it." Then he held her close, and leaned over to kiss her.

But Yvaine didn't let him. She leaned away and blocked his mouth with her hand. "There's one more thing," she said, and there was an edge to her tone that made Tristan nervous. He opened his eyes. "If you were in love with me all along, then _why_, for heaven's sake, did you run off so early this morning?"

Tristan straightened, brow furrowed. "I left a message with the innkeeper..."

"Something along the lines of 'going to see Victoria because you've found your true love and want to spend your life with her'?"

With the distinct feeling that he was missing something, Tristan nodded. "That sounds about right."

Danger signs were everywhere. Yvaine glared at him. "And you didn't think that was the _slightest_ bit ambiguous?"

"Well... now that you mention it–"

"You _IDIOT!_" she erupted. "I thought you were going to _marry_ _Victoria_!"

"No!" Aghast, Tristan raised his hands in full surrender. "No, no, no, Yvaine, I meant _you_." He took hold of her shoulders. "I meant _you_. I want to marry _you_."

"You idiot," she said again. "Why didn't you just ask?"

"I'm... sorry," he said helplessly.

"Moron."

Flustered and apologetic though he was, Tristan had to ask, however carefully, "Is... is that a yes?"

She glared at him again, exasperated. Then she burst out in frustrated laughter, falling forward to hit her head against his shoulder. "Yes that's a yes, you _idiot_." She whacked his arm, just hard enough to sting. "Dunderhead," she added.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and she allowed him to hug her. "I just didn't think. I love you, Yvaine. I went to see Victoria to say goodbye. I thought it would be cruel to bring you with me."

"Oh, cruel to who?" she asked. "Her or me?"

"All of us," he said flatly. "Mostly me."

Yvaine laughed and kissed him. They returned to Una hand-in-hand.


	3. Chapter Three

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun. Hatha, however, is my creation.

* * *

_Chapter Three_

Some time later, Tristan awoke with a jolt. The carriage had just hit a rather nasty bump and the hilt of his sword had smacked painfully against his ribs. He found himself slumped on Yvaine's comfortable shoulder. "Welcome back," she teased.

Tristan rubbed his eyes, blinking in the light. They were in the woods now, but not far ahead was a clearing and the most northern part of the wall. "How long was I asleep?"

"Quite a while," Una said kindly. "You needed it." The two of them shared a sideways glance, and though drowsy, Tristan was certain that they'd been talking about him. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Right," he said instead. "Why are we going to the wall? Yvaine has to stay in town."

Una looked at the screen of trees ahead, then peered at him. "How did you know the wall is ahead?"

Tristan paused. "...I don't know. I'm just sure. Why – why are you smiling?"

His mother said, "Because this, if nothing else, proves that you're my son. One of our ancestors must have been a witch because every so often, the talent for finding places springs up in our family. Sextus had it, and I think our grandfather did, too."

"Really?" asked Tristan, fascinated. "How does it work?"

"I'm not sure, but tell me – which way is it to the capital?" Tristan pointed without hesitation, then stared at his hand. Una beamed. "See?"

"That's amazing," he said. Then he looked at Yvaine and grinned. "See? I _did_ know where I was going."

She elbowed him and made a face; he'd won, this time. "To answer your question," she said loftily, "we're going to pick up the caravan before anyone can steal it."

"Ah," said Tristan.

The sun was slowly sinking; it was late afternoon. They arrived at the gap to find it deserted. No guard had returned to fill Mr Edwards' place. Tristan frowned but said nothing as he hitched Sal's brown horse back to her caravan. His mother climbed inside as they began the trip back to Market Town, with Yvaine steering the smaller vehicle while Tristan drove the carriage behind her. There wasn't much chance to talk while so far apart, but both could hear Una moving inside, shoving broken things aside as she gathered anything valuable. "Most of Sal's merchandise is frozen charms," she'd told them earlier. "Flowers and such with magic woven into them so anyone can use it. The people of Stormhold buy charmed items for all sorts of purposes, so we can sell these; they're very valuable." In particular, she was searching for bluebells, which were usually used to keep food from spoiling and could preserve Septimus' body long enough to arrange for a proper burial.

As the road widened and they approached the town, Yvaine slowed to drive alongside Tristan. "How long will you be in Wall?"

"Not long," he promised. "A day, maybe two. It depends on my father. Mother and I will need time to explain all this to him. I really hope he'll come with us. And besides that, I need to pack, and I have friends I want to say goodbye to."

He spoke so lightly that Yvaine blithely assumed he didn't feel all that sorry about suddenly leaving home, and so she shrugged and let the issue drop entirely. "How much does your village know about Stormhold?" she asked. "I mean, you and your father are special cases. What are you going to tell them?"

He shrugged. "The truth, I suppose. I went to find my mother and now I'm going to live in her home town. See, we never really knew much about this place, just that the wall is ancient and that it guards a secret world no one should ever enter, or ever _has_ entered. We have a weekly roster and people volunteer to stand watch. That's it, really. Father says he never believed it until he came here. Most people do, though, and the village council is very strict about it."

"Will you be in trouble?" Yvaine asked. Tristan chuckled.

"Probably. I don't think Mr Edwards – he's a guard, a friend of my father's – I don't think he ever told anyone that I came from across the wall. I'm not sure anyone knows that Father crossed it, either. I'm not going to tell them anything."

At this point they were approaching the town wall, well out of sight of the various gates, and Yvaine knocked on the wood behind her to alert Una. They were going slowly, so when Una came out of the back she jumped down easily and called out, "I found it!"

Yvaine slowed to a halt a short distance from Tristan, who had stopped the carriage alongside a blank stretch of the town's stone wall. Approaching, Una nodded her approval and held up a yellow glass rose from the basket she had filled. "Possession charm. No one will be able to take the carriage, or even find it, except me," she explained, "and out here there's no chance of anyone walking into it by accident."

"What about the one for Septimus?" Yvaine asked, patting the nose of one of the black stallions. Una produced a bluebell and walked to the carriage door. Opening it, she suddenly turned away and took a deep breath of fresh air.

"Just in time, too," she muttered. "Tristan, help me get him out."

Tristan did so, then knelt to watch his mother work, still enough of a small-town boy to be delighted by the magic. She touched the bluebell against his blanket-wrapped head, dragged it down his left side to his toes then back up the right, never breaking contact. She finished by tucking the flower into the blanket's folds. "That's it?" Tristan asked. "How do you know it's worked?"

"I've been doing Sal's menial work for a long time. Trust me, Tristan, it worked."

Yvaine, meanwhile, had freed the horses and tethered them to the caravan, then opened all the carriage doors and windows and whipped a blanket around inside, trying to shoo out the smell of blood. After they lifted Septimus back in, Una 'surrounded' the carriage with the effects of the rose in a similar fashion, then fastened it to her dress.

"What about the caravan?" Yvaine asked.

"Sell it, I suppose. I've already taken anything that might be useful. I'll be glad to never see it again." Una frowned at it, then shook her head and climbed onto the driver's seat. Yvaine and Tristan led the black horses and Septimus' steed, and they continued into the town.

* * *

Having worked for Sal for so long, Una knew exactly where to sell both the wagon and the horses for the best price, and went off on her own while Tristan and Yvaine took the royal stallions to the inn where they had stayed before, _The Slaughtered Prince_, and settled the tired animals into a small stable.

"Oh, back are you?" said the grouchy innkeeper as they entered the main room. Dusk was approaching and he was now acting as the barman, but looked no more pleased than he had that morning. "Settled all this urgent 'true love' business?"

Tristan turned a bit red and Yvaine took his hand. "Yes. We'd like to arrange lodging for–"

"Talk to my wife," he snapped, and turned to serve a customer. Yvaine, who had done all this the night before, recognised a middle-aged woman and briefly spoke with her.

"Of course, dear," she said pleasantly. "Don't mind my husband; he'll snap at anyone who wakes him before noon. Your room is still empty. I'll get you the key back in just a... Una?"

Tristan glanced at his mother, who had just come in. She was smiling widely at the innkeeper. "Hatha," she said, "I'm free."

The innkeeper, Hatha, was a brown-haired, cheerful-looking woman who laughed as she hugged Una. "So that horrid old witch isn't going to come and cause another brawl in my pub, then, eh?"

Una laughed. "Never. Hatha, I want you to meet my Tristan," she said proudly, squeezing his shoulder.

Hatha's brows shot up. "Tristan? Heavens, it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

"Tristan, Hatha was my midwife when you were born," his mother explained. "We've been friends for years. Whenever Sal and I came to town she'd sneak me some extra meals."

"You needed them, you skinny thing," Hatha scolded. "Well, it's good to see you again, lad, though I'm sure you won't remember me. I took your basket down to the wall."

Surprised, Tristan shook her offered hand and said, "Then thank you, thank you very much. I'm pleased to meet you. You already know Yvaine?" he asked, and Hatha nodded.

"Hatha," Una said seriously, "Tristan and I are going to see his father. We might be gone a few days. I must ask you to look out for Yvaine while we're gone. Protect her."

After a long moment passed and Una offered no explanation, Hatha shrugged. "All right. Well, you're safe in my inn, dear," she said to Yvaine, "as long as you stay away from the drunkards. I'll have one of my boys stay up tonight and keep watch. If you need anything from the market, just let me know."

"Thank you," Yvaine said sincerely. "I appreciate it."

"That's quite all right, love. I'll just get you that key and then I must be off to serve the crowd," she jerked her head at the rapidly filling room. Una smiled and bade her farewell.

Tristan took Yvaine aside and pulled the snowdrop from his pocket. "I want you to take this," he said. "Carry it with you all the time."

She accepted it but said, "Tristan, I'll befine."

"I know," he replied, "but this morning four people were ready to kill you. It'll make me feel better if you keep it. Anyway, what use is it to me in Wall? There are no witches there. And," he added suddenly, taking the flower and tucking it into her pale hair, "it suits you."

Yvaine narrowed her eyes. "Are you trying to flatter me into agreeing?"

He bit his lip, caught. "Yes," he said.

She laughed. "Moron. All right, I promise. Now go – go home to your father and come back soon."

Tristan kissed her cheek and left, with Una, for Wall.

* * *

Crossing the threshold, Tristan frowned. "There's still no guard."

Una glanced at her son, stepping carefully over broken stones in the poor light of dusk. "That worries you?" she asked. Tristan shrugged, offering a hand to help her balance on the uneven rock.

"Maybe. It might just mean that Mr Edwards didn't tell anyone about this morning."

"You said he saw Sal die?"

Tristan nodded. "It scared him. He left his post. I thought they would have sent someone else by now."

"Well, would you have?"

It was an odd question and Tristan glanced back to his mother, though he could see little as they had just reached the trees, which blocked even more light. "You mean if I were on the council? Maybe. But village guards wouldn't do much good if a witch wanted to pass, would they?"

"Actually, I'm quite sure their magic wouldn't work on this side – they draw power from the land," she added at his look of confusion, "and England is practically a dry well. But even if it wasn't, and there was danger, the mere idea of a guard can be very reassuring."

Tristan's brow remained furrowed. "No magic at all?" he asked. "But the candle worked – it took me straight out of my house."

"Babylon candles are an exception," Una said. "Perhaps the only exception. They carry their magic sealed in the wax and are extremely powerful; a hundred thousand bolts of the best lightning wouldn't come close to matching the energy of just one of them – that's why they're so valuable. But Yvaine told me that your candle was almost gone when you arrived in the crater, right?"

He nodded. "There was only one trip left; otherwise I would have used it to find you."

Una paused to beam at him, still so happy just to be near him. "There is a little magic left in this land – not much, but enough for the candle to work. It probably used itself up just to bringing you across the wall; the rest would have been easy. In any case, I doubt England has enough magic to be drawn up by a human body, so I wouldn't worry your friends about stopping witches."

Tristan nodded, relieved. After a few silent moments, he glanced back towards the town, as he'd done several times already. Una shook her head and touched his shoulder. "She'll be fine, Tristan. I trust Hatha, and Yvaine's no fool."

"I know," he said. "Does Hatha know? About you, I mean. Who you are."

"That I'm the princess? No, she doesn't. I had no reason to tell her, and it was just safer that way. My name isn't common, but enough people mimic the royal tradition that no one will guess."

He nodded again, and they walked on in silence until the trees parted and there, ahead, was the little stone village, lights twinkling as the last glimmers of sunlight reddened the sky behind it. To Tristan, it suddenly seemed very small. To Una it looked quiet and comfortable, exactly the sort of place where she could see Dunstan and Tristan growing up. She smiled and held her son's hand, and he led her to his home, chatting all the way.

"That's the Brown family's house; they farm most of the land on this side. Everybody laughs at their name because every one of them has bright red hair. And over there, that's the road to London – see it, on that rise? Our house is just out of sight, behind the first row. Father will be home by now. He usually works late on Fridays so I always cook dinner..."

He continued his pleasant narration as they approached the buildings, and gave names to the faces they passed, waving or nodding to everyone but speaking to none save for an old lady called Mrs Harper, who frowned, puzzled, but returned the greeting kindly. Una was very aware of their stares, and it didn't really surprise her; in a town this size, everyone knew each other, and everything about Una from her dress to her posture screamed of an exotic origin.

Tristan led her to a line of modest houses attached side-by-side, with a small stream running in front of the path. Without knocking he opened a door, called out, "Father?" and led her inside.

In moments, the village began to talk.

* * *

A few streets away, in the _Seventh Magpie_, half of Wall had turned up to fill the bar with bodies and noise. Drinks were ordered but often ignored for gossip, and the rumour mill, burning steadily since afternoon, had become a fully fledged explosion of wild ideas and ridiculous notions.

"That boy's never left home in his life – where was he, anyway?"

"London?"

"Didn't see 'im on the road."

"Victoria said he went over the wall..."

"That girl's a featherbrain. No one goes over the wall."

"Mrs Mills said there was a _woman_ with him!"

"What?"

"Just now. Not a young lady, either. He took her into their house."

"Outrageous!"

"Who was she?"

"Never seen 'er before."

"Oi, Brown! They say you saw a gypsy caravan."

"Looked like it. You think the Thorn boy ran off with gypsies?"

"Why not? Everyone knows that's where he came from."

"But it was across the wall, and I _did_ see that funny green light..."

"Humphrey's furious – said he's never been so humiliated."

"By what? What happened this morning?"

"He admits it?" someone snorted. "Thought he was so pompous he couldn't feel shame."

"That's my son you're talking about!"

"Ah, well..."

While men sniggered and Charlie Banks glowered at the man who'd insulted Humphrey, other conversations were more serious.

"Sam Edwards swears he wasn't drinking–"

"Not beforehand, anyway."

"–and that people _from the other side_ were killing each other in the meadow! What do you make of that?"

"He's getting old."

"Robert!"

"It's true and you know it."

"Maybe he's having a laugh?"

"Maybe he realised there's nothing to guard but an empty field."

"And maybe our ancestors guarded that wall for a very good reason!"

"Then why have we never seen it?"

"You ever tried climbing the wall, Pete? It's magical. It _knows_ you're trying and stops you!"

"What – you _tried_?"

"Well, I – Now, I didn't say that!"

And so the village continued to talk, filling the rafters with gossip, old and new. Everyone knew Tristan Thorn had vanished a week ago, but until that morning his father hadn't been worried, and since then he'd been acting very peculiar. But Mrs Monday claimed she'd seen the boy – at least, she said, someone that looked a lot like him – talking to Miss Forester not long after dawn. One or two people had noticed that Victoria was wearing a new ring, but they'd all expected Humphrey to propose so it was brushed aside by the commotion about Mr Edwards – had he finally cracked? Ninety-seven years old, after all, and that wall did strange things to people.

The babble went on without conclusion, with newcomers demanding a retelling and everyone else circling the room, looking for any new snippets to add to their own theories. It was not until one of the reluctant stars of their show, old Mr Edwards himself, lifted his head from a table and cried, "That's not how it happened!" that any semblance of order came to the room.

Contrary to popular opinion, Mr Edwards was not drunk. He'd only been sipping ale all afternoon, and most of the time his head had been buried in his hands or on the table as he tried to make sense of it all. He was worried about Tristan – only a boy, really – and for everyone else in Wall. The image of green fire was burned into his mind and he couldn't escape it no matter how tightly he shut his eyes. Eventually the clamour of his neighbours had grown too loud to ignore, and when some young upstart claimed that there must have been a whole army out there, he had to speak up.

"Tell us, then," said Charles Banks, who fancied himself the town leader and was, to be fair, on the village council. "Tell us what really happened at the wall this morning."

Everyone crowded around his table, climbing on benches and standing tip-toe to see over each other. The room was packed, and outside there were more people, insatiably curious, making their way towards the _Magpie_.

Everything was set, had they but known it, to stage the most exciting play that Wall had seen for six hundred years.

* * *

In the quiet, half-dark house tucked into a far corner of Wall, Dunstan Thorn thundered down the stairs. "Tristan?" he shouted. "_Tristan_!"

"I'm here, Father," he said, and Dunstan all but fell down the last few steps, turning a sharp corner to reach his son and hold him tight. Tristan was surprised, and took a moment to return the hug. His father was rarely this openly affectionate – not since Tristan had turned twelve and begun to spurn embarrassing things like hugs – and he had _never_ seemed so afraid.

"Thank God," murmured Dunstan, his eyes still closed as they hugged. "Sam said something awful happened, that you were chasing some sot of witches..." he drew back, keeping a tight hold on Tristan's shoulders. "You are all right?" he demanded. "You're not hurt?"

Tristan shook his head, a painfully wide grin splitting his face. "I'm _fine_," he promised. "Really, I'm fine, Father – wonderful. I _found_ her," he said, more quietly but no less delighted. "I found her, Father, I found my mother. Her name is Una."

Dunstan's eyes brightened as he relaxed, a warm smile spreading across his mouth. He nodded slowly, murmuring, "U... Una. " He looked up. "Is she all right?"

A new kind of smile touched Tristan's lips – a secret smile, a mischievous one. He nodded, grinned, and turned towards the door. Dunstan followed his gaze, puzzlement flickering across his face... and then he stared.

Una – pretty, dusty, tired Una – stepped in from the doorway, hands clasped neatly in front of her blue dress. She smiled. "Hello, Dunstan."

"I... Hello."

He was stunned. Certain that she – Una – would still be a prisoner, Dunstan had never imagined she might actually _come back_ with Tristan. He had vaguely assumed that Tristan would return with a long and detailed story about meeting her, perhaps with a message for him; it was all he could hope for. In the years since they'd met, Dunstan had always hoped that if she were freed, she would cross the wall and come to them, but as time passed he started to wonder just how long witches lived, and faced the fact that he might never see her again.

But... there she was.

For her part, Una just looked at him, smiling softly. It would be a lie to say that she'd missed him as much as she'd missed Tristan, but she'd thought of him often, and there had always been a place in her heart for the kind young man who'd given her their son. He had aged, more than she had, though she was probably older. His eyes were the same, though, and he looked at her now with the same half-awed joy that had drawn her on sight so many years ago.

Tristan felt completely out of place. "Well," he said quietly, "I have some things to do upstairs."

They briefly glanced at him, but said nothing. Though it didn't seem to bother them, the silence made Tristan extremely uncomfortable. He backed up and climbed the stairs softly, avoiding the creaky step. Below, his father finally spoke, but the words were soft and hard to make out, and Tristan didn't try.

He quickly reached his bedroom and closed the door, wondering what was happening, trying not to picture any overly romantic possibilities. They were his parents, after all, and he couldn't really understand their relationship. Maybe they felt as awkward as he did; maybe not. His father had always said he'd loved her, and Tristan believed that. He knew he had somewhat idealised hopes for them, and perhaps he should know better, but was he so wrong to want them to still be in love? That maybe, just maybe, his family would finally be complete?

Seeking a distraction, Tristan looked around. His room was small and a little dusty, but it was welcoming and comfortable and always _his_. The well-worn furniture was sparse but cared for, and his small writing desk was cluttered with little knick-knacks that all held some sort of memory. Simple things, really, some from school or time spent with his father, and most had no material value whatsoever – a book of dried leaves, a marble, a sloppy wooden carving he'd been so proud of, little things his father had made or bought for him. He'd lived his life in this room, and it was strange that it now felt so far away.

He couldn't imagine Yvaine, with her beautiful white glow, living in Wall as a housewife.

It wasn't that he was ashamed of his life, or that Yvaine wouldn't be happy, but it just didn't suit her. And, Tristan was surprised to find, it didn't suit him anymore, either. He wanted to keep his trinkets, but suddenly the time had come to move on. Even if he hadn't loved Yvaine, this week had changed him too much to ever go back to what he had been.

There were some strong bags tucked under his bed, and Tristan went to fetch them – but paused. Sitting on his bed beside a warm depression was the basket he'd arrived in, a soft toy he'd treasured as a child, and his mother's letter.

Father had been there. Waiting. Tristan wondered what he'd been thinking.

From below, the voices had become a little louder. "...didn't expect it, either. But she died, and my chain was broken."

"_Tristan_ killed someone?" His father sounded incredulous.

"No," said Una, and there was a smile in her voice. "No, Dunstan, you've raised us a wonderful son. Another witch killed Sal."

Tristan smiled, but felt like an intruder. He deliberately made extra noise as he gathered the bags and pulled out his clothes (in his mind he heard Captain Shakespeare say, "so _very _small-town errand-boy," and smiled), and began to pack.


	4. Chapter Four

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Four_

Two hours later, when Tristan had filled the bags, emptied them, taken out the oldest garments, repacked, changed his mind, looked for more bags, filled them, emptied them again, rolled his fragile belongings in several layers, emptied the drawers, dusted the wardrobe, swept the floor, straightened the furniture and there really was _nothing_ left to do, he laid his bags on the bed, left his sword behind, and quietly walked downstairs.

His parents were chatting happily, halfway through making dinner. They looked up and smiled. "Tristan!" greeted his mother, "I'm told you make very good potatoes."

"Father's the only one who thinks so."

"That's because we don't have dinner guests often enough," said Dunstan. "Come, Tristan, help us. I want to hear all about this adventure of yours."

And that was it. Tristan had his family.

Una was just as interested in his story, having heard only bits and pieces of it from him and Yvaine. So Tristan told them it all, starting with his silly promise to Victoria and his errant thoughts while lighting the candle (for which he repeatedly apologised), then described in detail meeting the star and travelling with her to Wall (though, somehow, no chain was ever mentioned), going the inn and the witch, the _Caspartine_ and the pirates ("Captain _Shakespeare_? And he _helped_ you?"), what it was like being a mouse and that horrible confrontation with the Lilim witches, which Una expanded on. He avoided mentions of how he fell in love with Yvaine and deliberately said nothing about the ruby in his pocket or how the prince that chased them was his mother's brother.

Una noted the omission but said nothing. All Yvaine had told her after their halt at the pond was that Tristan needed time, so she had resolved to wait and say nothing about her son's future.

But Dunstan, unaware, brought them right to the subject. He'd fumbled with several dishes and nearly sliced a thumb instead of vegetables thanks to the distraction of Tristan's narrative, and at the close, when his son finally had the chance to eat instead of talk, he said, "It sounds like you had an incredible week. Wall must seem very boring in comparison."

"Definitely more... predictable."

A slow realisation came to Dunstan then, and he studied Tristan, who was eating with a sort of fidgety apprehension, and Una, whose eyes were fixed on her plate, trying to remain uninvolved. Dunstan looked back, and chose his words carefully. "Well, you always wanted to travel. I suppose London and Paris don't seem so exotic anymore."

"Not really, Father, no."

A pause, then:

"You're not staying, are you?"

The Tristan who left a week ago would have never faced him squarely the way this man did now. His eyes held concern and love, but no request for permission. "I never wanted to stay in Wall forever, Father, you know that. And now there's no reason to, except that I'll miss you if you stay behind."

"What about Victoria?"

"She's engaged to Humphrey," he replied with a shrug, and took a bite of the (actually rather good) potatoes.

Dunstan frowned. "Is that why you're leaving? You can't stand to see her get married?"

"No," Tristan said honestly. "It's all right, Father, I'm happy for them. I'm not in love with her anymore."

Dunstan looked sceptical. "For ten years you've worshipped the ground she walks on, and now, after barely a week, you're telling me all that is over?"

Tristan shrugged again, with a silly little grin, and toyed with his fork. "Well, it's... it's Yvaine, actually. She... she's nothing like Victoria, but she's..."

"Your star?" Dunstan asked. "You're in love with her?"

Tristan nodded slowly. "I asked her to marry me."

This was news even to Una, who looked delighted. "That's wonderful!" she cried, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. She glanced at Dunstan, who seemed astonished, and said, "Oh Dunstan, trust me, you'll like her. Yvaine's a lovely girl."

"I'm sure she is," he said. "This is just... rather sudden." He _knew_ Tristan – or, rather, he _had known_ Tristan – and it wasn't like him to change so quickly. Dunstan's son had always confided in him, even about the embarrassing details of his love life, so it was rare that he was surprised like this. But Dunstan was hardly one to give lectures about a whirlwind romance and well knew it, so he just asked, "You're happy?"

Tristan smiled helplessly and nodded. Dunstan shrugged and clapped his shoulder. "Then this is cause for celebration." He reached for the wine, brought out for an already special day, and refilled each of their glasses, raising his to toast. "To your happiness, Tristan, and to your Yvaine."

"Hear, hear," said Una, and their glasses clinked.

When he had swallowed, Tristan thanked them and said, "She wanted to come and see Wall, Father, but stars can't set foot outside Stormhold. That's why I'm going to live there."

Dunstan nodded, sipping from his own glass, but his face was serious. Always sensible despite his enchanting visit to Market Town, he was now a grown man and a father, and had to bring up the more practical concerns. "And what will you do over there, for work? How will you support her?"

Una glanced between them, but Tristan didn't need urging. Though reluctant, he reached into his pocket. "There's one other thing, Father... it's about Mother."

"My family," she added.

Tristan opened his hand and Dunstan's eyes widened at the brilliant red gem. "Where did you get _that_?" he breathed.

"It belonged to my father," said Una. "Dunstan, I really _am_ a princess." His head turned sharply and she shrugged. "I shouldn't have expected you to believe me, but it's true. My father was the king of Stormhold. Now he's dead, and all my brothers are dead, and the crown can only pass to a male heir."

He understood immediately. "My god..." he breathed. For a long moment he sat still, resting his face in his hands. "Well... I always did have high hopes for you."

Tristan smiled faintly.

"You really think you can rule a country?"

Softly, he said, "I don't know. I don't want to."

Una hated to see him so unhappy, especially as it was – however indirectly – her fault. She held his hand tightly. "I know, Tristan, but I think you can do it. You have a lot to learn, yes, but I'll help you. I'm sure you'll manage."

Tristan looked at his father, who was equally overwhelmed. "I take it there's no other way?"

"Not without risking a very bloody civil war," said Una. "I didn't plan this," she added earnestly. "I never thought you would have to face this, Tristan. All I wanted for you was to live in peace. No one knew but me, and I never thought _all_ my brothers would die. I am _sorry_."

"It's not your fault," he said, clasping her hand.

But there was no chance for Tristan to ask his father's opinion, or even for Dunstan to organise his thoughts to form one, for at that moment a series of bangs and shouts were heard outside and soon there was a loud knock on the door. "Town meeting!" cried a boy. "Town meeting at the _Magpie_! Mr Thorn? Mr Thorn, you there?"

Dunstan stood and answered. The knocker was one of the village's younger lads, whose playmates were alerting the houses nearby. The few times it was required, boys that age were deputised as the town criers. "I'm here, Tommy."

"Mr Thorn they told me to tell you that you have to be at the meeting and said to knock 'til you answered 'cause its very important," said Tommy quickly, sounding out of breath but very proud of himself. Dunstan clapped his shoulder.

"Good lad. Tell them I'm coming."

Tommy ran off at top speed. Dunstan closed the door and looked at his family. Tristan was solemn. "Mr Edwards?" he asked tiredly, not really needing an answer.

His father nodded, returning to his seat. "I'm sure of it. If they're worried enough to call a meeting, they must know something serious has happened. Sam came to see me this morning for an explanation. They know I crossed once, but told me not to breathe a word and try to forget it." A wry smile and a nod to them both indicated the likelihood of that.

"So they're going to ask a lot of questions," Tristan concluded with a sigh. He'd hoped to avoid that.

"How much do we tell them?" asked Una. Dunstan looked at her and smiled slightly.

"You'll come with us?"

"Of course – if you want me to. This is my fault, and I'm the only one who can answer all their questions. That is, if you think they should know about Stormhold."

She was looking at Tristan, who hadn't seemed to realise that she was giving him a chance to lead. Dunstan kept quiet and leaned back in his chair, watching, interested. Tristan had never needed to be involved in village politics before, and he had no idea how well his son would do.

"I don't want to lie to them," he said. "They're afraid; it's perfectly understandable. We should tell them the truth."

"How much truth, Tristan? Do you really think they should know _why_ witches were after Yvaine's heart?"

"No, but..." He looked at his mother. "Is this what a king does, then?"

She smiled, caught. "Sometimes. Why don't you lead us at that meeting? You decide what to tell them, and I'll just fill in the details you ask of me."

"Well, why don't you lead so I can see how you do it?"

"That's a good answer," Una grinned. "Mine's better: Because you know these people and can judge how they'll react."

Dunstan said, "She's right, you know. I don't know enough to answer their questions. If you're seriously thinking about being a king–" and the concept was so alien that Dunstan paused a moment just to shake his head in astonishment. "Well, you'll have to start somewhere."

"But they respect _you_, Father."

"I think they'll respect you now," he replied. "You're very different from the boy who left last week; anyone can see that. And if not, you'll earn their respect tonight."

"Or you should demand it," said Una. "I know, I know," she said as they frowned, "it doesn't sound nice. I just mean that you should behave as their equal. Don't let them talk you down. As king there are some rules of etiquette that would help you, but here..."

Dunstan nodded, continuing for her. "Charlie Banks likes to ask all the questions, and he'll lead any meeting if you don't stop him. Try turning it around to what you want to say. Don't just answer their questions and wait for the next one."

Now feeling, if it was possible, even more anxious than before, Tristan nodded and followed his parents out.

It was a cool spring night with no wind. The moon and stars were bright and Tristan smiled, wondering if Yvaine's sisters were watching them now. The streets were empty, as usual, but most of the houses they passed were very still and silent, though light came through windows and smoke from the chimneys. Almost everyone was at _The Seventh Magpie_.

The village pub wasn't designed to be a town hall, but became so in the absence of one as it was the only space large enough to hold a lot of people, yet not half of what was needed. So, as tonight was so nice, Mr Banks had brought everyone – including poor, frazzled Mr Edwards – outside. Mr Bromios had allowed people to drag a few of his chairs into the village square (probably with strict orders to pay for any damage), and someone had arranged them to face the central gazebo, where the ten men who made up the village council sat waiting under the eaves, with a space cleared below them. Most of the townsfolk were already there, making a rippling, murmuring, dark sea of heads and shawls with extra lamps and torches set up to light the proceedings.

Their approach did not go unnoticed. Perhaps it was the rumours, or just the moonlit gleam of Tristan's white coat, but conversation quickly died out and a path was cleared before them leading right to the centre.

Every face Tristan saw was familiar; they had names and families and funny stories and a lifetime of memories, but at that moment, he didn't feel welcome. Some people called out greetings and questions, but others... they kept their distance, looking him over warily. For this tiny, tight-knit community, Tristan was suddenly a stranger, not one of them anymore. Still, he'd always been a well-liked boy, and they certainly didn't mean to be unfriendly – most had been honestly worried about him. But despite a love of gossip, the villagers of Wall weren't used to surprises, and the day's rumours had unsettled them. They found no comfort in the strange woman, or this strange new Tristan.

Then Frank Monday's curly head popped up and he gave a wide smile, waving frantically. "Tristan!" he called. "Where've you _been_? You all right?"

Frank pushed his way through the crowd and came out beside his friend, clapping him on the shoulder. Tristan grinned and said, "I'm fine, Frank. It's... it's a long story."

"We'd be interested in hearing that story, Thorn," drawled Mr Banks. He sat loftily in his seat among the council men, dressed in an expensive red suit. He looked a lot like Humphrey, save that his grey hair was swept back from a slightly wrinkled forehead. Sternly, he asked, "Where have you been?"

They reached the clearing. Frank stayed close. Victoria and Humphrey were standing nearby and she gave Tristan a small, relieved smile. Dunstan leaned over to Una and whispered, "That's Mr Edwards," and pointed out a few other people. Una nodded but said nothing. She kept her gaze steadily forward and walked with the measured, elegant steps of a princess.

Tristan was biting his lip and taking deep breaths, but when he faced Mr Banks his voice was steady. "I left to find my mother," he said, and offered her a hand. Una took it and stepped forward. "This is my mother, Una," he announced. "She comes from Stormhold, the land across the wall."

There was an uproar. The rumours had been wild enough to begin with, and even though Mr Edwards had mentioned his crossing, somehow no one had actually connected Tristan with events across the wall, nor had they _ever_ considered it to be a place he might have come from. Now they stared at Una with everything from awe to horror, and she bore it silently. Dunstan made a show of standing by her and staring down his scornful neighbours, of which there were many – generally the older folk, or those for whom tradition was set in stone. But others cheered and one even cried, "Good on you!" and to them, Dunstan smiled.

"And that's where you've been?" Mr Banks demanded over the clamour.

"That's where I've been."

Some glares then turned on Mr Edwards, and several people berated his carelessness until the old man shouted, "I didn't let him! He tried to cross last week and I didn't let him! I don't know how he did it!"

"He didn't let me," Tristan confirmed.

"Then how did you do it?"

"Mother left me a... tool," he said, "to help me find her." Suddenly realising he was letting Mr Banks lead, Tristan asked, "Did you really call the whole town here just to talk to me?"

"No," said Mr Comfrey, Victoria's grandfather, who sat beside Mr Banks. "Mr Edwards has petitioned us to repair the wall."

There were murmured protests at this, mostly from those people who either hadn't heard or hadn't believed the rumours, as well as some loud cheers of approval. Mr Comfrey held up his hands for silence.

"Mr Edwards tells us that there are dangerous people on the other side," he said. "This morning he saw two women battle to the death with magical powers that we could never hope to fight. He says we must seal the gap for our own safety."

Tristan glanced around, hearing the worried chatter, trying to think of what to do. He did _not_ want that wall fixed – if it was he would never be able to return, never visit his friends or even his father, who as yet had said nothing about coming with them. But from the look of it, people here were scared, most ready to agree immediately; how could he change their minds?

Una watched him carefully.

"Tha's rubbish!" bellowed George Brown, one of that family's older sons. He had quite the reputation for drinking, and staggered a little as he climbed up to hang from a post and wildly pointed towards the wall. "They can't come through! No one ever comes through!"

"_I_ came through," Una declared loudly. "So did my son."

The muttering quieted, and attention returned to their small group. "Tell us, then," said Mr Comfrey. "Tell us what's on the other side. You must know. Are we in danger?"

He looked at Una, but she surreptitiously poked Tristan and he said, "There _are_ witches and warlocks in Stormhold. Lots of them." Catching himself, he hurried to add, "But they're not evil, they're just people. Everyone there uses magical things. It's normal. It doesn't hurt anyone."

"What if those _people_ suddenly decide to invade England?" demanded Mr Banks, and people shifted uneasily, new fears forming in their minds.

"Most of them think our world is just folklore," Tristan replied. He had the feeling that it was unlikely, but was running out of useful information, and knew it. "My mother can tell you more." He stepped back and whispered, "Can you convince them they're safe?"

She nodded.

Una took a moment to make herself comfortable on the chair someone kindly offered. She smiled her thanks, then began. "Stormhold is an ancient magical kingdom that will not fit on any of your maps. It is made up of what you call 'fairy lands'; places your people no longer believe exist. Many thousands of years ago, magical barriers were built to hide our world from yours, to protect _my_ people from _you_. The only reason you can even see that wall is because it's broken."

"All the more reason to repair it," said Mr Comfrey, and he was supported by wordless murmurs from the crowd.

"You can't," Una said flatly. "There's more to it than stone. You'd need very powerful magic to seal it completely, probably fifty witches and warlocks working together – and a royal decree, as all borders are under the king's jurisdiction." Her glance flickered to Tristan, then back to her steady watch of the council.

"At present, England is under the rule of _Queen_ Victoria," said Mr Banks, "but it is quite understandable that you didn't know that."

"On the contrary, I know exactly what I'm talking about, and your queen has nothing to do with it. The wall is under the jurisdiction of _our_ king; the King of Stormhold."

There were scattered mutterings at this, but the crowd stayed largely quiet, curious – and worried. Reverend Myles, who sat on the council by default as a representative of God, noted Mr Banks' irritated look and said, "Of course, ma'am. We know no more of your world than you do of ours."

Una gave him a polite nod.

"Will you tell us, then," he continued, "why your king hasn't mended the wall? We know it's been here for centuries, but there's no record of anyone crossing from your side. Why leave it open?"

"I told you," said Tristan, "most of them don't believe England exists."

"And those who do – such as the king – have no real interest in it," said Una. "You must understand, it's well known that there is a wall here. Everyone in Stormhold has grown up hearing bedtime stories of adventures in a world of strange inventions where magic doesn't work – and yes, I assure you, people _have_ crossed before – but as my people depend on magical items to run our lives, there is no appeal in a world where magic fails us."

"So there's nothing to worry about," Tristan assured them. "The ordinary people who live on the other side aren't afraid of magic."

"Not _afraid_ of it?" cried Mr Edwards in a shrill voice. "I saw two witches with enough power to destroy our village and you tell me the people over there _aren't afraid of it_?"

"Well... no. A-And most people there are just like us; they can't fight magic either..."

Una saw him falter, and smoothly – if reluctantly – took over again. "No witch or warlock is born knowing how to use their power. To learn they must join a sister- or brotherhood, and there are magically binding rules. The witches you saw had a personal vendetta, but there are limits as to what they can do, magically, to a person who has done them no harm – if not for those ordinances, our kingdom would be ruled by whatever magician is the strongest."

That made sense; Tristan had never thought about it before, but it made sense. His mother had spoken briefly of how she'd been captured, and it had to do with some sort of agreement she'd made with the witch – a purchase or a promise with loopholes, like his own negotiation for passage to the wall. He knew now, in retrospect, that he had been very lucky.

But the people around them were unconvinced. The noise rose again as villagers argued among themselves, repeating their convictions.

"Makes no sense..."

"How'd she know that?"

"Maybe for _them_–"

"_All_ witches are evil."

"Oh God... oh _God_..."

"It's blasphemy! They're bewitched!"

"Their rules won't apply here."

"The wall should _never_ be crossed!"

"It's unnatural–"

"God help us! Father Myles, tell us what–"

"What can we do what can we do what can we _do_?"

"No more crossings!"

"Seal the gap! SEAL IT!"

The noise was grating. Tristan looked around, overwhelmed and frustrated by those people for whom Stormhold was as abstract as it was foreign.

Then Mr Edwards, who had been squinting curiously at Una, suddenly cried out, "You were _there_! You were there, across the wall, with the witches! I saw you–!"

"I was a _captive_–" Una explained, but her words were lost in the sudden panic.

"_What_?"

"This morning?"

"With the fire?"

"She's one of them!"

"She came through the wall!"

"What have you _done_?"

"–cast spells on us!"

"Already enchanted Dunstan–"

"Unnatural!"

"–trying to trick us–"

"Oh, God!"

"–black magic–"

"–what's _really_ over there–"

"You're a liar!"

"Liar!"

"Witch!"

"WITCH!"

"_STOP IT!_"

Tristan had just snapped.

He was _tired_. Very tired. The fight in the canyon had exhausted him and it had been a very long day since. The shock and sudden worries about his heritage were weighing heavily on him. He was completely inexperienced, his weariness had caught up to him and suddenly, he forgot every rule of common sense.

"Don't _ever_ say that! Mother was their _captive_, that's why she wasn't here. We're trying to _help_ – how stupid _are_ you? You're not in danger, you never were, and there's nothing you can do to seal the wall _anyway_! Don't you _EVER_ talk to my mother like that again!"

Tristan knew he was only making things worse, but for a moment he just didn't care. He'd always thought of these people as his friends, and to hear _anyone_ talk like that...

Then he saw his parents – Dunstan, every muscle tense, and Una, a confused mix of shock, gratitude, and fear in her eyes, and suddenly Tristan realised _exactly_ what he'd done.

He'd failed his mother's first test.

On the other hand, he had silenced the mob. Tristan knew he had to speak, now; he had to fix this. If his parents took over again he would never earn the respect of his village. Or his mother.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know you're scared, and this is a lot to take in, but you have to trust me. Nothing's changed in Stormhold just because I accidentally led two witches to the wall – and they're both dead. No one over there knows or cares about Wall any more than they did last week or last year, and I... I..." he paused, searching for something, _anything_ that would convince these people of their safety – anything, as long as it was true.

"Look," he said, "I promise you that – that the king of Stormhold is planning to send guards..." He glanced around, trying to gauge their response, and saw his mother's eyes light up. "Guards for the other side of the wall. They'll be able to stop anyone who might bring danger to the village."

"Why doesn't he just _fix_ it?" someone demanded.

"I... I don't know," stammered Tristan. "Maybe he will. Maybe... he wants to make friends with England – a peace treaty, or something. But he does care – about you, about this village. He doesn't want anyone to get hurt. Not if he can help it."

He looked around. Many people watched him silently, others whispered, but the mood had changed. Perhaps it was the idea of royalty, which was so far out of their reach, or perhaps it was the subtle sincerity in Tristan's words, but something about his speech had touched them, and the panic was fading away.

Una was beaming.

Mr Banks, his commanding airs somewhat snatched away, demanded, "How can _you_ promise anything in the name of a king you've never met?"

"I – I have met him," said Tristan, too flustered to be more creative.

Una could see the problem forming and hurried to control it. "My family is old and respected and we have some influence in the royal court. The king likes to know his people, and was kind enough to speak with us. He is very interested in Wall."

Tristan nodded, catching on, and said, "He asked us to talk to you, and if you want he'll send guards as soon he can. But I really don't think you have anything to be afraid of in Stormhold. I'm not, and I'm going to live there."

Their hasty half-truth wasn't a perfect explanation, but any chance to find holes in the story was lost in a sudden uproar of protest. Later, Dunstan would wonder if Tristan had done it on purpose.

"_Enough_!" bellowed Mr Comfrey, who instantly rounded on Tristan. "What do you mean, you're going to live there? You're already in trouble, young man – _no one crosses the wall_."

"I belong there," he retorted. "I'm not asking your permission. My mother lives there, I was born there, and I'm going to marry a woman who's waiting there. I _belong_ there."

Forgotten behind them, Frank asked, "You're not coming back?"

Tristan turned to his friend, looking sad. "I'd like to visit," he said softly. "I'm going to miss you – all of you. I want to show you what I've found. I don't understand why you're all so afraid... but I'll accept your decision," he told the council. "If you say no one is to cross again, ever, then I won't come back. I'll tell the king, and his guards won't ever let anyone through again. But I _am_ leaving."

He paused and added, looking at Frank, "I'm sorry."

And then there was nothing more to say. Tristan turned, and walked away.


	5. Chapter Five

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun. Celeste as a character is mine, but her name comes from the screenplay in the _Visual Companion_.

* * *

_Chapter Five_

Yvaine was _bored_.

True, thirty million years in the sky would do that to anyone, but it wasn't a feeling she ever got used to, and now, from her warm wooden bedroom at the inn, she couldn't even find some interesting scene to watch down on Earth.

The fallen star was sitting at a table, idly fiddling with a spoon from the supper she'd long since eaten. She rested her head on one hand, leaning sideways, gazing at the fireplace. Once alone, she'd asked for hot water and taken yet another bath, soaking and scrubbing away the feeling of filth left by the witches' house. It had been wonderfully relaxing, but eventually turned cold, so now she sat in a long white nightdress she'd borrowed from Hatha. Her layered blue gown hung on a chair.

The fire was dying down.

She'd spent a lot of that evening watching the market below, full of bright colours and loud voices, and her first urge was to simply wander around in it, soaking in all the life this place had to offer. But Tristan was worried, and she'd promised Hatha, so she stayed put.

Now it was late, and there was only the occasional noise below. Nearly everyone was asleep, even the son Hatha had sent to sit outside her door. Yvaine saw no need to wake him; she wasn't tired yet, what with her body still unused to this new sleeping cycle.

Her thoughts kept returning to the idea of 'home' and whether or not that still meant the sky. Yvaine had known the moment she'd accepted Tristan's proposal that it meant staying here, on this dangerous world, and that was all right; the happiness she'd found was worth risking death. In the back of her mind she knew that someday she would return, but for now she was far from her sisters, and missed them.

For the third time that night, Yvaine opened her window and leaned out, looked up at the heavens and asked, "Do you hear me?"

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but she knew they would hear if only they knew where to look; a star could focus on any part of the world below, but never all of it at once. Her sisters would be able to see every hair on her head, but only _if_ they could find her. Twice before Yvaine had called, without luck; she'd waited, but the lure of a hot bath and food had called her back. Now she had nothing else to do.

There was no way to know how long she stood there, but it was long enough for her feet and arms to turn numb and the fire to go out entirely.

"_Yvaine_." It was a whisper on the wind, breathy and distant as the sky always is, but she heard it and smiled, surprised. This wasn't one of her sisters; it was the brilliant white moon.

"Mother," she said. "Have you been watching me?"

"_Yes. You are not hurt?_"

"I–" Yvaine blinked, startled by the fear in that voice. "I'm fine."

Her brow furrowed in bewilderment; the Moon, her mother, had always been a distant figure, rarely showing any emotion; certainly, she loved her daughters, but with so many of them scattered throughout the heavens she rarely spent time with any one of them, save for those young enough to need nurturing through their childhood. Once a star was grown, they were all given the same strict set of rules – to protect them, as she never really considered any of her girls true adults – and otherwise left alone. It had been millennia since she had spoken to Yvaine about anything, save to scold her.

So the sudden urgency was surprising, if understandable, and Yvaine wasn't quite sure what to say. But for the moment, at least, the Moon seemed satisfied; there was a long pause, so Yvaine took the chance to ask about something that had worried her all week. "The unicorn you sent, is she all right?"

"_No. She did not survive the witch_."

Yvaine cringed – another death, all for her damned heart. Though as immortals, stars were used to Earth creatures dying all the time, it was easier to be aloof when living far above the world. She suddenly scowled, fiercely irritated by her mother's return to cool and detached tones. Not only had the unicorn saved her _life_, but it was a creature who served and was particularly protected by the Moon. And she could still hear the shrieks as it was burned by green flames...

"_I honour her_," said the Moon calmly, "_as must you. Escape the dangers from which she rescued you. Come home_."

"It's all right now," Yvaine assured her, and she shook her head sharply, trying to let go of the memory. "The witches are dead. I'm safe."

"_No fallen star is ever safe_," the Moon said sternly. "_A warlock in the town of Hop has a Babylon candle. Use it. Come home_."

"No, Mother. I'm staying here."

There was a heavy hush in the air. The few times their mother gave a direct command, stars obeyed without question. The Moon was utterly inflexible in her rules, and her rare bouts of fury could scare even the oldest girls into line. Though Yvaine had often been lectured for misbehaviour – always being much too close to Earth, which was why the stupid bloody necklace had hit her in the first place – she'd _never_ argued, merely waited until no one was looking to try again.

Now she stared back steadily.

"_You promised to tell me stories!_" cried another voice, this one much younger. Yvaine turned to a small star tucked beside and almost hidden by their mother's glow.

"Celeste?"

"_You promised!_" Celeste whined. "_You always tell me stories!_"

"_You don't belong there_," their mother decreed. "_Come home_."

"I'm staying. I'm marrying Tristan."

There was a brief silence of total surprise, until another star – far to the west – scoffed, "_Are you mad? The boy chained you up!_"

"He was an idiot," she agreed, "but I love him. I'm not leaving."

"_Yvaine, think about this,_" urged a third sister, and Yvaine turned a little south to look at her.

"Selena?"

"_Yes, it's me. Yvaine, do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into?_"

In truth? Not entirely. "I know you were happy when you lived down here."

"_For a time_," said Selena. "_For a very short time. Then everything went wrong. You know I can't bear to watch Earth anymore._"

Yvaine shook her head; having never heard the whole story, she'd never understood why. "Look now, Selena. Look at the way they can love. Is it so bad?"

"_Humans are petty, hateful creatures. I loved one once. I regret it._"

"They aren't all like that. I'm _happy_," Yvaine declared. "I wish you would just be happy for me." This last line was directed to their mother, whose blank face watched coldly.

"_And when he dies?_"

Yvaine's eyes narrowed, and for a long moment she was silent, thinking. Yesterday in the caravan she had begun to suspect something; she'd struggled to find words to express her feelings to Tristan, and found herself describing a heart that no longer _belonged_ to her. She'd started to wonder if maybe that _wasn't_ a metaphor; a physical red heart beat in her chest, but the starlight within it... There was no way to describe that feeling to a human, but Yvaine could sense a change. The energy was different, only half there, yet it wasn't at all like the drain of misery. In contrast, she felt even more complete.

"Tell me something, Selena: This human you loved – how long did he live?"

There was a very long silence. At last she said, "_Long enough to resent needing me to __stay__ alive._"

Yvaine flinched at the pain in that voice, but rounded on their mother, ranting, "Tristan will live as long as I love him, won't he? Why didn't you _tell_ us? While we're on the subject, why didn't you just _happen_ to mention that I'd die if I landed on human soil?"

"_There was no need. My daughters do not belong on Earth_," said the Moon.

Yvaine threw up her hands. "Fine! Fine, be that way. I can't make you like him. But I'm not going anywhere."

There was no response from her stony mother, but Celeste sniffled loudly and said, "_You promised!_"

"I'm sorry," Yvaine said sincerely, winding down from her anger. "I didn't ask to be knocked down. I'm sure Nomi or Ina can..." She paused, struck by an idea. It was a bit silly, really, and tempting the Moon's outright fury, but it would make her sister happy. "Celeste? Why don't you watch me at night, and I'll tell stories from down here?"

"_Really_?" asked the girl-star.

"Really," said Yvaine, and looked cautiously at their mother, sure she would object. There was no reply.

"_Now?_" Celeste pressed.

Glancing at the weather, Yvaine said, "Just a short one; there are clouds coming in."

"_And tomorrow?_"

"I might not be here tomorrow," Yvaine said, and there was a quiet wail from above. "We're going to travel to the city, and I don't know how long it will take. But I'll try," she promised. "Keep looking for me, all right, Celeste? I can't come out every night, but I'll try. All right?"

"..._All right,_" she pouted.

"Good. Now, I'll tell you the story of..." she hesitated, then smiled, "of Princess Una, who ended the bloody tradition of killing for the throne of Stormhold..."

Yvaine didn't realise, but Celeste was not the only star who listened.

The Moon did not.

* * *

By late morning, the village of Wall was shrouded in a light cloud of rain; a spring shower. Water pattered on every rooftop, and in the attic of his home, Dunstan Thorn was trying to be as quiet as possible.

His family was still asleep, and he didn't want to wake them – Tristan especially; the meeting had completely worn him out. As they walked home he'd said, dully, "I shouldn't have done that," and from his tone it sounded like he meant the entire meeting.

"You shouldn't have lost your temper, no – though that's not to say I don't appreciate what you did for me," Una had told him, smiling. "You did rather well for a first try, especially as I haven't had a chance to actually teach you anything yet."

Tristan had nodded, accepting the compliment but clearly unhappy with the result. "What if it didn't work? What if they... I don't know, burn us at the stake?" That particular worry was exaggerated, but the fear in his voice was not.

Dunstan felt pained then, wishing he could lighten his son's burden, but he couldn't always predict his peers either. The best he could offer was, "You _did_ get through to them. Sending guards is a good idea; it's exactly what they needed to hear. It calmed them down."

"What do you think they'll decide?"

He could only shrug. "I don't know."

At that point, as he had reached to open their door, Dunstan had taken a closer look at his son's face and realised that the apparent dismal mood was half due to utter exhaustion. Tristan was almost asleep on his feet, and didn't argue when Dunstan sent him straight to bed.

He and Una had kept talking, filling each other in on the details of their lives, trying to get to know each other... it would be nice to say "again", but the truth was that they hadn't spent much time talking that night. Dunstan told stories of Tristan's childhood – the embarrassing sort that parents love and children hate – and she had laughed. Una told him about Stormhold and magic and her own girlhood, though he had the distinct feeling that she was avoiding a lot of the darker parts. This, of course, led into him talking about his parents and youth, how he'd never believed there was more than a field over there, how he'd sent scientists a letter and how dramatically that opinion had changed. They talked of many things, like the use of magic (actually, England hadn't always been a barren land, and the ancient presence of magic was probably responsible for most of their country folklore), the mysterious Yvaine ("delightful girl. Sharp sense of humour. I like her"), whether he wanted to come and live with them in Stormhold ("Of course!"), the logistics of it ("take along anything you want, there's bound to be room") and, of course, Tristan's future.

It was impossible, after only a few hours, for Dunstan to imagine his son as a king. He'd supported Una's conviction in a practical, slightly detached fashion, and as they talked he'd tried to digest it fully. Tristan, as a king. His son, whose clothes were always slightly frayed, who'd been bullied by the other children, who'd cried when he couldn't understand a school math lesson, and who'd come home one day at the age of five, covered in mud, manure, and – somehow – ink.

That boy, as king. Endless wealth and precise formalities. Etiquette and diplomacy. It was intangible; the picture refused to form in his head.

Talking to Una, it became a bit more real, if no less daunting. Sipping wine, she broadly described Stormhold's politics and their government structure, explaining how a great amount of actual work was distributed among advisers and local noblemen and what issues a king did have to deal with. She was reasonably confidant that Tristan could do it, but admitted to some doubts. "If all else fails, our laws give him the right to abdicate and leave ruling power to me, to hold as a regent until one of us has a son of age to inherit. But I don't think it'll come to that."

She'd gone on to describe all the legal modifications made over the years to protect female heirs and restrain their power while Stormhold's princes killed each other, and that had begun a whole new discussion. It was only when Dunstan almost dropped his glass, slumped in his chair somewhere around two o'clock, that they retired. He insisted that Una take the upstairs bedroom, and himself slept quite comfortably on spare cushions and blankets.

The rain had woken him hours later than usual, and he'd lain there quietly, thinking. He did not, for one moment, reconsider agreeing to leave Wall. Though he had friends, and knew he would never have the same life-long relationships with anybody else, he loved Tristan completely and wanted to be near him, help him along, watch him raise a family... And then, of course, there was Una. He wanted to spend more time with her, too.

But as always, practical thoughts rose up and Dunstan found himself mentally going through the contents of his home, everything from pictures to pastries, deciding what he wanted to keep and what simply had to be discarded.

Eventually he got up and was soon in the attic, kneeling beside dusty chests and looking through generations of Thorn family keepsakes. He'd never much cared for any of it; as he'd once told his mother, "I don't know these people. What use are their wedding clothes to me?" Yet it had been her prize collection and he'd never had the heart to throw it out. Now, as he sorted through Grandmother Regina's diaries and Great-Uncle Wilson's beloved snakeskin belt, Dunstan wondered if Tristan would want any of it.

But what _use_ would most of their things be? Why take spare blankets or water jugs to Stormhold? Why not sell them? Una had said, carefully, "You... you won't need the money, you know," but he was quite sure there was no need for their old furniture, either. Not if they would live with Una in... well, it would probably be a palace, wouldn't it?

Dunstan looked around the small, musty attic, and shook his head. It was all very unreal.

Still, he would deal with what he could. Most things could be sold, if there was anyone in town who wanted them. That small rocking chair he wanted to keep, though, and the handcrafted oak cradle; it had been his once, and Tristan had loved it until he'd outgrown it. There were a number of books that he was sure would never be published in Stormhold, a few tools that were always handy, some carved figurines he was rather fond of...

* * *

Shortly before noon, Frank Monday was to be found on the far side of Wall, leaning against the side of a house, facing the open countryside. The drizzle that fell on him was light, almost misty, and he rather enjoyed the fresh, cool breeze. This was a quiet spot where he and Tristan had often run off to as children, escaping school and work and their fathers. It wasn't in direct sight of any windows, nor paddocks where people regularly worked, and if slightly muddy, it was at least peaceful.

Scattered pieces of childish games were half-buried and rusting in the ground. Frank kicked idly at a short metal stick that he knew was the last remnant of their once-elaborate map of the world (mainly composed of twigs and old, broken forks), showing all the places they would someday go. That one had been Tristan's idea; he'd always been the dreamer.

When his friend walked away from the meeting last night, Frank had been too surprised to follow, and stayed to listen while the issue was argued. He was a loyal chap, and when someone made rude suggestions about why Tristan _really_ went travelling, he defended his friend so vehemently that the errant loudmouth wound up thoroughly humiliated.

Still, he wasn't happy. Tristan had changed a lot and Frank just didn't know why. He couldn't imagine what might've happened in the last week, or how finding his mother could have possibly–

"I thought you'd be here."

Frank turned. Tristan stood at the corner, still dressed in those fancy, slightly travel-stained clothes. They were a marked contrast to his own – and Tristan's old – worn brown ones. He looked uneasy, and there was a brief, awkward silence.

"Sorry Father fired you," Frank said at last. "I tried to talk him out of it."

Taking that as the invitation it was, Tristan came to join him and they sat on some old, upturned buckets that had been rusting there for years, each taking the same one he'd claimed when they were boys. "It's all right," said Tristan. "I deserved it. I shouldn't have followed Victoria home – it was always hopeless anyway."

"I could've told you that," Frank replied with a playful smack. Tristan laughed.

"You _did_ tell me that. Often."

"Well, you never listened."

They chuckled again, but it was half-hearted and ended quickly. The misty rain swirled around their faces.

"So... you're really going to leave Wall?"

Tristan nodded.

Frank ran a hand through his damp hair. "Tristan... Tristan, this is _fast_."

He sighed. "I know. Too fast. I... I had an _adventure_, Frank, and it was fast and wild and terrifying, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."

"Because you found your mother?"

"And Yvaine."

Amidst all the other things that had been said last night, that was the one Frank hadn't been sure he'd heard right. "Then you _are_ getting married?"

Tristan's face split into a silly grin for which, at any other time, Frank would have teased him mercilessly. "Yeah. You'd like her, Frank, she's..." He shrugged. "She is who she is. I love her."

"Enough to just leave?" Frank wasn't scolding him, or angry in any way, but he was hurt. "You always talked about travelling but... Well, I didn't really think you'd just pack up and go."

"I didn't mean for it to happen so fast," Tristan apologised. "It just _did_. It's not just Yvaine or Mother, it's... I don't belong here, Frank. Now more than ever." He gestured to the town, to where people had neglected work all day to talk about him over and over, still unsure, still unhappy, still afraid.

Frank nodded; that was true. Though he could see now that Tristan was still basically the same bloke, some of the changes in his friend were so unbelievable that even if he wanted to stay, it would never really be the same again. And more so, his mysterious mother – Ona, right? – definitely wasn't a housewife. Watching her yesterday, Frank had the distinct feeling that she didn't belong any more then Tristan did. She was just _different_.

"I'm sorry," said Tristan. "I don't want to choose between my friends and my family."

To his surprise, Frank snorted back laughter. "If your girl's anything like Victoria, there's not much of a choice."

Tristan reddened. "That's not true. I'm still going to miss you." Frank shrugged, and from years of knowing him, Tristan could read right through it; his friend felt second-rate, the loser of a fight he'd never even known about. "I mean it," he added forcefully. "You're welcome to come with us to Stormhold. It's a really... big place."

Frank shook his head. "I'm not one for big places, Tristan. You're the one who always wanted to travel; I like Wall. Anyway, the council forbids it."

Apparently that wasn't something he'd heard about. "Why?" he asked, flicking his hands in frustration. "Why are they so scared?"

"Lots of reasons," Frank said calmly, "and some are really good– Oh, don't look at me like that. Of course I trust you. But that place is strange, and it scares the hell outta people. That's not going to change just because you yelled at them."

"They insulted my _mother_," Tristan snapped.

"Fine, fine, you had good reason. Then. And no one's stopping you from going back – they're writing an official message for your king about those guards, by the way – but they'll never let me visit."

Tristan nodded, but he couldn't help hearing the words "your king" over and over in his mind – "your" king, not "ours" or "theirs". His. There was already a gulf forming between them, and how could he possibly tell Frank that _he_ was meant to be that king? This morning's more objective reflection told him that last night hadn't gone too badly, but he still felt completely unprepared. Frank had always been, besides his father, the best person to turn to for advice, but this... Tristan just couldn't bring himself to say it.

"I still want you at my wedding. You should meet Yvaine. You'll like her."

Frank shrugged. "So have it here."

Tristan shook his head. "We can't," he said. "Just over the wall, maybe, but not here. Yvaine can't cross it."

"Why not?" asked Frank simply. Tristan shifted on his seat.

"She's... she's not completely human," he admitted. Frank stiffened. Tristan added, nearly repeating his mother; "Stormhold has magic in the earth and water and air, but England doesn't, so it can't keep her alive."

"So... she's some sort of fairy?"

"Something like that."

Frank shook his head and gave a long, low whistle. "Well... don't tell the council."

"I won't."

Pause.

"There really _is_ magic over there..."

"Yeah."

Frank smiled. "Wow."

* * *

Across town, Una was working in the kitchen when there was a knock on the door. Dunstan was still in the attic – she'd gone up and offered to help, but there was little space so instead she'd promised him breakfast – so it was only natural that she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and opened it.

Their visitor was the same old man who had nearly started a riot against her last night. He stood very stiff. "Good morning, madam," he said.

Una raised one eyebrow and simply said, "Dunstan's upstairs." She turned and walked in. He followed, but as she went to call or walk up the stairs he let out a quiet, strained cough, and she turned around.

Having calmed down from his tipsy hysteria, Mr Edwards was extremely aware of his rudeness at the meeting, and her cold lack of greeting was Una's way of pointing it out. "As a village elder, I speak on behalf of everyone in Wall," he said solemnly, "and we owe you an apology for what was said last night."

She was silent just long enough to make him uneasy. Then; "I accept. Thank you." And if it didn't sound completely sincere, at least the forms had been observed, and for the rest of his visit Una was unfailingly polite.

Dunstan's footsteps broke the tension. He appeared on the stairs saying, "Sam! I thought I heard your voice."

"Morning, Dunstan. What've you been up to?"

He gestured to the dust streaks on Dunstan's shirt, and the younger man absently brushed at them. "Packing," he said. "Do you know if anyone would be willing to sell us a wagon?"

"No, can't say that I do," replied Mr Edwards, lowering himself into the offered chair. "I should've known you'd be going with him. I was sent to find Tristan, but I trust they won't mind if I tell you instead."

"Tell us what?" Dunstan asked, helping Una set the table (rather hampered by the half-sorted items spread out to be packed), at which his friend sat but politely refused a share of food.

Mr Edwards described the official letter Frank had mentioned to Tristan, and finished by chuckling and saying, "Charlie Banks insisted on writing the whole thing personally; took him hours to be happy with the wording."

Dunstan laughed. "Well, I'll be sure to put my resignation in writing. Should make his day."

Mr Edwards sighed and said, "It won't be the same here without you, Dunstan. Your father was my dearest friend. Funny that your grandfather hated me."

He smiled fondly, and Dunstan – who'd heard this story many times – gave a standard, though very friendly reply. They went on in this vein for some time, talking about old friends and family, and enjoying what they knew would be their last conversation for a long time.

Una excused herself. She went to pack.

* * *

As soon as the rain stopped and the ground had dried enough for a young lady to walk without soaking her hem, Victoria was out. She was tired of being stuck indoors with nothing to entertain but the same, frustrating thoughts that – despite her best efforts – had nothing to do with Humphrey.

Victoria felt cheated. Despite her wonderful engagement, which _should_ have been the talk of the town, things had gone all wrong since Tristan came to wish her a happy birthday. Even after that humiliation ended, her entire day had been spoiled, and was made even worse when Mr Thorn had come pleading for any word on his son. Humphrey had patted her hand and made vague assurances, but Victoria hadn't quite been able to let go of her fears until she'd seen Tristan standing tall and confident at the town meeting. He'd even smiled at her.

Then he'd had the nerve to casually mention meeting someone else while searching for _her_ star. Someone who was probably having it made into earrings _right now_.

That was infuriating, and just... just _wrong_. She – she! Victoria Forester! – had been prepared to keep her word and marry Tristan (and _damn_ that wonderful champagne for making her agree in the first place), but then _he_ had let her go – literally – for another woman.

Oh, it wasn't as though she was _jealous_ of this – this _tart_ who just waltzed in and stole Tristan's affection. After all, _she_ was engaged to Humphrey Banks, and there was no better man around! No, no she wasn't jealous.

But she was hurt. A little.

Not that she would ever admit it. Victoria's wounded pride fiercely denied the very notion, and instead she put all her energy into planning her own, increasingly elaborate wedding; she'd already scribbled enough details on flower arrangements to cost her father a fortune.

The purpose of her walk was to speak with the grocers about how long it would take to order all the rare delicacies she'd just decided were absolutely essential, but as she moved through the streets, the chatter of her neighbours constantly brought Tristan and his strange family back to mind. She tried to ignore them.

Striding towards the square, Victoria cornered Mrs Monday, who had been changing some numbers on her husband's storefront sign, and began a very loud conversation about recipes for her wedding dinner, flailing her left hand in the sunlight at every opportunity.

The twinkling ring caught some eyes, and her own voice was loud enough to block out chatter about that gypsy woman, but Victoria's luck on this day was no better than that of the day before. Her conversation was about to be interrupted by two laughing young men who were, at that moment, walking up a nearby quiet street.

"You're _joking_."

"I'm not."

"But that's impossible!"

"I know, but it happened. Strangest feeling, really; being furry, and having a _tail_. Everything was so _big_."

"You were a mouse." Frank's voice was deadpan.

Tristan shrugged. "Yeah."

"You were a mouse."

"Or something like it; I didn't exactly have a mirror. Yvaine told me."

"You were a MOUSE?"

"Shh! I can't let everyone know – you promised not to–"

"I know and I won't, but... she turned you into a _mouse_!"

"Not _Yvaine_. The witch – Sal, I think."

Frank shook his head. "And you still say you're not afraid of witches?"

He had a point, but Tristan shook his head. "I'd agreed to be her passenger; I didn't realise that meant I was putting myself in her power. If we'd just passed by on the street she couldn't have done it."

Actually, it was a little more complicated than that: The witch who'd chased them had been free to use any magic she wanted, but Una had explained that the three Lilim sisters were ancient, and had once been queens who ruled Stormhold; that long-empty title gave them the loopholes to do practically anything, unless they swore – as Sal had – to or to _not_ do something. But they were dead now and, with very few exceptions, what Tristan said was true of all of Stormhold's magical folk.

As they rounded a corner into the busier village square, Frank saw his mother talking to Miss Victoria, and veered toward the shop, calling, "Mother! You remember that cabinet of Mr Thorn's you liked so much?"

Puzzled, Mrs Monday turned from Victoria to say, "Yes, dear, what of it?"

"We're selling it," said Tristan, joining them and smiling at Victoria in greeting. "We're selling everything, really – you're welcome to take your pick. The rest will go to Mr Robinson to sell in the other villages after we leave," he added

"You're–" Mrs Monday bit off a choked cry. "You're _all_ leaving? Your father...?"

Tristan nodded, aware that her loud voice was attracting attention. He addressed his reply to all the nosy villagers who were closing in. "Yes, Father's coming with us. We're packing now, and selling the rest. You should all feel free to come and look around."

Frank watched his neighbours start to talk again – in the same half-angry bewilderment that had made him speak up the night before – then noticed Tristan's uncomfortable look and loudly added, "Yeah – and come _before_ I help haul it all to Robinson's so I don't have to drag it back again!" He grinned and continued their walk towards Tristan's house. "Come on; Father has me working in the storeroom later. Not got _that_ much time..."

* * *

So Frank cheerfully helped Tristan and his parents as they churned up dust, dragging bags and boxes around the house, cleaning and organising things to be kept or sold while searching for ways to pack it all. As neither Dunstan nor three generations before him had ever properly moved out, this was no mean feat.

The first neighbours came by almost immediately, several purely out of curiosity, and they added yet one more element to the chaos. Eventually Frank produced paper and a pen for actual buyers to write down details of what they wanted and how much they were offering, but to decide such things they first had to walk around, examine everything, and discuss it with the rest of their family, resulting in a house crammed full of people. Meanwhile, Una stacked the foodstuffs they would be taking, Frank and Tristan heaved a never-ending supply of old trunks from the attic into the crammed space that was once Tristan's bedroom, and Dunstan directed the entire operation from wherever he was currently sorting.

At mid-afternoon Frank had to leave, and made a forcefully normal goodbye to his oldest friend. "I'll see you sometime," he shrugged, and then – quietly – added, "I figure if you can cross the wall once without anyone knowing, you can probably do it again."

Tristan hadn't thought of that, but with the apparent scarcity of Babylon candles, it didn't seem likely. "Maybe," he said gloomily.

Frank bit his lip, thinking. "The council didn't say anything about stopping _letters_ from crossing..." he pointed out, and suddenly Tristan grinned.

"No, they didn't. I'll write," he promised, "and send it with the guards. I'll tell them to throw it over the top with something brightly coloured if they can't just hand it through."

Frank laughed. "Perfect. I'll do it, too. Rub that in Humphrey's pompous face," he added gleefully, with no scruples about laughing at the son for the father's oversight; they'd always done that, and he didn't mean to actually say it – just imagine.

At that moment, Mrs Hempstock and her young son arrived with a mind to buy Tristan's bed frame, and any chance of a private and probably fairly awkward goodbye was lost. Frank said, "Well, good luck with... whatever. Be happy. Tell Yvaine I wanted to meet her," he added, then accepted Tristan's own good wishes, waved and walked off.

Tristan went inside.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a wild haze of sore arms, stubbed toes, noisy visitors, missing items, found items, forgotten items, and items that had been borrowed years ago and were long overdue for return. There was one case that Tristan bruised his shins on four times in four different places, which he privately dubbed the Trunk From Hell. It was staying behind.

It was clear that their job would not be finished in one day; at least one more was needed. Dunstan promised that there was order to the madness and helpfully pointed out his complex arrangements – his bedroom for everything that would definitely go (except for the furniture he'd _asked_ for help removing), Tristan's room for all that would stay and be sold ("aren't those the bags you packed to take?"), half the kitchen for items that were almost certain to be bought by neighbours (except for anything on _that_ chair), the near-empty attic for all that he was sure would go to Mr Robinson ("but I think Mrs Harper wanted that mirror..."), and most of the sitting room for whatever was in transit (with several spaces left for exceptions). Tristan and Una just nodded and kept putting things where he told them to.

As dusk approached, the senior Mr Comfrey arrived and inspected the house itself for suitability as a wedding gift to his granddaughter. Una, who by now had heard the entire story of the famous Victoria, found this highly amusing.

Tristan, however, kept glancing towards the trees and the wall beyond, and at last he said, "Father, I want to go back now. I promised Yvaine we wouldn't be very long." He paused and added, "I don't like her being there alone."

With a fond smile, Dunstan wiped sweat from his brow and nodded. "Don't forget to pick up that letter for the king from Mr Banks; Samuel came by this morning to officially inform you," he explained – then hastily added, "Oh, and Tristan? I have something for you. Follow me."

Dunstan's bedroom was, normally, nothing remarkable. Much like his son's, it was simple and comfortable, and there were few items of interest – even fewer now, as most of it was packed or emptied, waiting to be moved.

Sitting in one open bag amongst plain and practical clothes was a small silver box in which was kept all of their family's irreplaceable keepsakes. Tristan was honoured, if not completely surprised, when his father held out the silver ring that had once belonged to his own mother. "For Yvaine," Dunstan clarified, as though it had a hope of fitting Tristan. "I always planned to give it to you, though I didn't it would be going to a _star_."

He grinned and Tristan laughed. "Thank you," he said earnestly. Then, as words didn't feel like enough, he hugged his father. "_Thank_ you."

"You're welcome," he returned, patting Tristan's back. "That ring's been waiting here for years, and I know your grandmother wanted to pass it on."

Tristan could say little to this; he'd never known any family beyond his father. His grandfather had died of old age shortly before he'd been delivered, and his grandmother fell to sickness when Dunstan was twelve. Both had been only children, so he had no cousins. The claim wasn't quite true, though – Tristan knew who Grandmother Violet had _meant_ that ring for.

"What about Mother?"

There was a cold pause. Dunstan gave him a steady look and said, "We're not ready for that, Tristan. Not even close." Aware that he was being a bit harsh for a well-meant question, he added, "I also have _my_ grandmother's ring. But don't you worry about that. It's not your–" _business_ "–problem."

Tristan nodded and toyed with the ring. It was simple, a silver band with a tiny sapphire, and probably the most valuable thing they owned. It was small and elegant, and seemed perfect for Yvaine.

He wanted to say more, apologise perhaps, but couldn't help but glance out at the sunset. Dunstan saw this, smiled, and clapped his shoulder. "Go," he said, giving Tristan a little shove. "We'll be along in a few days."

Tristan left Wall quietly, looking back at his old home with fondness, but no regrets.


	6. Chapter Six

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun. Hetham is in the movie, but his name is mine.

* * *

Act Two: Market Town

* * *

_Chapter Six_

The _Slaughtered Prince_ inn was, despite its name, a rather cheerful place. When the guests had cleared out and the drinkers were yet to arrive, sunlight from the second-level windows shone brightly into the main room, sparkling off candelabras and well-scrubbed wood, as well as the water that Yvaine's careless hand occasionally flicked into the air.

She was washing dishes, an act that would horrify her mother but was very much appreciated by Hatha, who worked beside her. Yvaine had slept – or lazed about pretending to sleep – until noon when Hatha came to ask after her breakfast. Bored and unwilling to order anyone around, Yvaine had offered to help the innkeeper with her daily tasks. This was met with polite protest, but was very much appreciated when she insisted.

"But I'll not have you ruining that dress," Hatha said firmly. "It's a miracle that travel hasn't spoiled it already. We'll wash it. Come this way; you're about the same size as my daughter..."

And so Yvaine had borrowed a rust-coloured outfit that was uncomfortably similar to what the witch wore in that _other_ inn, but she appreciated the gesture and it was, indeed, much more suitable for housework.

Hatha really didn't need help, but she enjoyed the company. So far they had remade all the used beds with fresh linens, filled the washtubs, scrubbed everything – including her dress – hung it out to dry, swept the floors, checked the food stocks, served the occasional guest and now, with much time saved by an extra pair of hands, they were washing the extra crockery that hadn't been used in quite a while.

All the while they'd talked pleasantly of nothing in particular, and Yvaine took silly joy in some of the more mundane aspects of life on Earth. For one thing, the rainbow sheen of soap bubbles in the sunlight; perfectly round, they glittered beautifully, changing colour with every angle...

Suddenly realising that she was staring, Yvaine pulled her attention back to Hatha, hoping it wasn't too obvious that she'd never played with soap before.

If Hatha noticed anything, she ignored it. "So we lived in that small room down the hall for almost three years before the old man finally died. I swear he was hanging on just to spite us. Everyone knew his own son was never going to come back from the city just to run this old place, and it doesn't matter how drunk he was; the town mayor _and_ a warlock were in the room that night, and he publically swore it on a magical flower." Hatha gave a little, triumphant laugh. "By the time he was gone and buried, Hetham and I already had three little ones crowding our room. But it was worth it; everyone who comes to Market Town knows the _Slaughtered Prince_. We've got more money set aside for our youngsters than most anyone else."

"Where are you children?" asked Yvaine, who had only seen the youngest son all day.

"Oh, they're about somewhere. Kelsa's at school today and my _boys_..." she shook her head and glanced at the door. "Rugal will be in the barn with your horses. The others should be off with their father at the carpenter's – Heth's replacing two of the oldest tables; nearly killed a customer when a bad leg fell out of one – but they'll probably have run off to see the dancing girls again. Heth might just be with them."

She didn't sound particularly concerned, which struck Yvaine as odd. "Is that... normal?"

"He's just that sort of man," she shrugged, then noticed Yvaine's expression. "Oh, don't you worry about me, dear. Heth might like a good show but he always comes back to my bed eventually," she winked. "I know he's a grouch, but I love him, and he's a good father. I might not be as lovely as you anymore, but I couldn't have found a better man to marry."

Hatha paused in her washing, looking at Yvaine, who was absently flicking water into the sunlight, watching it fall in sparkles while her hands rinsed the plates. She was smiling widely, and the light behind her seemed to brighten her very skin. Then Hatha saw the small white flower than was twined in her braided hair.

"A_ha_," she declared. "That's it, then. I was wondering why you're so happy."

"What do you mean?"

"Yvaine m'dear, no one who washes dishes was ever as cheerful about it as you; not even someone who's never done it before – yes, I can tell. If you want to pretend you're not from a rich family, try not to wear that sort of dress or travel with four well-bred stallions," she advised. "Anyway, I _saw_ Una's boy give you that flower yesterday. And if talk of my down-to-earth marriage was enough to make you smile like that..." She shrugged elaborately.

Yvaine blushed, but couldn't control her smile. She playfully threw water at Hatha, who returned in kind. "All right," she admitted. "Tristan asked me to marry him. Yesterday, if you must know."

"I must indeed. Come on, tell me more."

"Hatha!"

"Oh, indulge me," Hatha teased, lightly hitting her with the drying towel. "My Kelsa's too young and the boys will never admit such things to anyone. I haven't forgotten what it's like to be a young lover, you know."

Yvaine shook her head, baffled. "Why is it that everyone we meet wants to meddle in our business?" she asked the world in general, thinking of Captain Shakespeare's matchmaking efforts. "I thought marriage was supposed to be something between _two_ people, not everyone who just happens to wander by."

"Oh, it is. I'm just not very respectful of that – shameless, really. Motherly habit," she explained with a laugh.

But Yvaine tilted her head and furrowed her brow. "What does being a mother have to do with being nosy?"

Hatha's smile dampened a little and she continued to dry the plates. "Doesn't your mother fuss over you, Yvaine? I can't imagine anyone not being interested in their own daughter's engagement."

To be honest, the answer was yes – Yvaine's mother was _quite_ interested, and had made her opinion on the matter very, very clear. Once her anger had faded and Celeste's story was finished, Yvaine had tried to talk to her, to apologise for shouting and explain herself better, but... "She isn't speaking with me," Yvaine admitted.

The look on Hatha's face sank from mild worry to anger. "If your Tristan has a single shred of Una in him, he's a good boy, and I _saw_ the two of you together; he adores you. What fault could she possibly find – isn't he rich enough?"

Sourly, Yvaine almost laughed. Money? What did the Moon care for _money_? "That's not it," she said, and offered no further explanation.

As before, Hatha did not press the matter. "Well, to answer your question – as a mother, I reserve the right to be infinitely curious about my children's lives, even if they won't willingly tell me. Sometimes it feels like the only way to know them; when they were small I could play with the boys as much as Kelsa, but now... well, they can be right hooligans at times, but we do still have the occasional pleasant evening 'round the fire, just the lot of us chatting. Still, I can't wait for one of them to find a nice girl and make me a grandmother. I never realised how much I would miss cleaning up after a jam-covered toddler." She smiled.

Yvaine was quiet for a moment. She'd never thought about having children – she wasn't even sure it was possible for a star and a human. Celeste had been born several thousand years ago, and entertaining her little sister was the closest experience Yvaine had to being a parent. Oh, she'd watched mortal families and laughed at the antics of children, idly wondering what it would be like, but...

Now it was tangible, within her grasp, and the idea sparked a warm feeling in her chest, as wonderful but entirely different to what she felt for Tristan. It was... It was happy and protective and delightful, and she could almost imagine holding a baby, _her_ child–

But it might not be possible. Tristan might not want children. At the very least, it was much to early to think about that now. She shook her head, trying to put the matter aside, and went back to the task at hand; drying dishes and stacking them back on the shelves.

Hatha had watched her wander off in thought and said nothing, letting her be. At last the girl blinked and asked, "Sorry, what did you say?"

"Oh, nothing. I think we're done here, and it's getting cloudy again. I'm off to take the washing in. Are you coming?"

"Sure."

* * *

Come sunset, Yvaine was happily exhausted. Oh, walking the countryside all day wasn't relaxing either, but there was a great feeling of accomplishment in seeing results from her work, even if it was as mundane as clean plates and a tidy desk.

The bar was filling up. Hetham and his sons were back and two of them were serving drinks, chatting with the regulars. One of the boys – Yvaine had forgotten his name – was eyeing her appreciatively as she wiped her hands on a borrowed apron. She smiled back, but otherwise ignored him.

"Just hang it on a peg in the kitchen, dear," Hatha said of the apron, her hands too busy with paperwork to gesture. "Then you ought to get on upstairs before it gets busy. I'll bring up your supper – oh, and your dress; it isn't drying right, with all those layers." She finished logging a room as paid for and stood straight. "Just hang it in front of your fire – I'll send Rugal to light it for you."

"You're sure? I'm happy to help. There's not much else to do."

"Thanks, love, but I promised Una and your Tristan that I'd look after you, and I can't very well do that in a crowd." Hatha smiled, "Go on. You've been more than enough help already."

So Yvaine nodded and walked towards the door, fumbling with the apron strings on her back, when suddenly, she was grabbed from behind.

Panicking, she shrieked, then jerked away and turned to see– "_Tristan!_"

He was laughing, ignoring the glares of startled customers, and held up his hands in surrender. Yvaine kicked him anyway, more from the fright than actual anger. "Don't _do_ that! You scared me! I thought you were a witch or a–"

"I'm sorry," he said, still chuckling, and before she could keep complaining he wrapped her in his arms, leaned over and kissed her.

Well. That made it rather hard to stay angry.

Yvaine gave in, snaking her arms around his neck, tightening the hug, letting him dip her backwards, and it was a perfect moment–

Until hoots and whistles from the crowd, cheering on the newcomer and his favourite barmaid, burst their bubble. Yvaine broke the kiss and stood straight, embarrassed and blushing. At the bar, Hatha's son looked disappointed, as did a handful of other men. Tristan noticed that, and it might have been why he kept a gentle hold on Yvaine's shoulders as he said, "I missed you."

She shook her head, annoyed but smiling anyway. "I missed you, too," she said, then her tone turned stern. "But if you _ever_ do that again..."

Tristan laughed, leaning back to avoid her jabbing finger. "Okay, okay, I've learned my lesson. No more sneaking – I promise."

"Good," said Yvaine, and then she laughed, too. "Help me with this apron, will you? I can't get it off."

* * *

Some time later, Yvaine and Tristan were curled up by the fire in their small room. He was sitting on the floor, against a bedpost, and she sat in his lap, leaning back, head resting on his shoulder. Their feet were stretched out towards the flames, and Tristan's arms were wrapped over hers, their fingers twined together. Both were quiet and relaxed, enormously comfortable.

Tristan's tall boots were flopped over by the door, his sheathed sword propped up beside them. Nearby were the overstuffed bags he'd brought from Wall, and a tray with two bare plates and used forks piled on it beside empty glasses. Yvaine's layered blue skirt hung inside-out over the only chair, drying. The window was slightly open, and on the wispy breeze came faint sounds of the night-time market. Both were lost in the calm warmth of flickering yellow flames.

Yvaine sighed, totally content, and closed her eyes as she lay against his chest. He looked down and smiled. For the first time since learning of it, Tristan didn't feel the weight of his mother's expectations. Whether Yvaine understood his troubles or simply didn't care about the crown, she hadn't asked about it, or what would happen next, or how things had gone in Wall. He'd briefly explained it all over dinner anyway, freely admitting his mistakes and fears, but Yvaine, who had seen so many similar problems forgotten over time, just asked, "But it worked out fine, didn't it?" and he had to agree.

They'd laughed over the pompous letter Tristan had picked up from Mr Banks; the village council had spared no expense. It was written on the largest, finest sheets of paper Mr Monday sold, in detailed and flowery language and with all ten signatures. It had been sealed with wax and given to Tristan with strict orders to see that the king received it promptly – he was not to lose, dirty, or otherwise damage it! Tristan had to muffle a smile before walking out of that house. Yvaine said, "I'd love to see his face when he finds out."

She'd asked about Dunstan and Frank, and somehow he ended up talking about his old wish to travel the world, see famous cities and exotic people, and she told him of some of the stranger cultures she'd seen, of different people whose lives she'd followed with fascination, including a Spanish prince, a wandering warlock, a beautiful con artist, and a flamboyant sea pirate who somehow managed to outsmart everyone who ever came after him. Tristan laughed, impressed by some of the long-dead man's antics, and the two of them wound up together by the fire, smiling peacefully, drowsily watching the flames.

Then a small, breathy voice came through the window. "_Yvaine_?"

By rights, something that quiet shouldn't have been heard, but it was perfectly clear to both of them and Yvaine sat up, smiling. "Celeste!" she said happily, and sprang to her feet. She reached out to pull Tristan up.

"Who's Celeste?"

"My sister. I always tell her stories when she's bored with our mother's lessons, and I promised one tonight. Come on, I want you to meet her."

Tristan gladly followed her to the window, and stood a little behind Yvaine as she pushed aside the curtain and leaned out. He could see dozens of stars out there, and wondered absently if they were _all_ watching.

"I'm here, Celeste," Yvaine said brightly. "And I've got the perfect story. But first I want you to meet–"

"_Mother says you can't tell me stories anymore_."

The star's voice was small and sad. There was a long pause. "What?" Yvaine asked, bewildered. "Why not?"

"_Mother says you have to come home. She's real angry, Yvaine. When will you be back?_"

"I'm not _coming_ back."

"_But if you don't you can't shine or tell stories!_"

Yvaine shook her head, brow furrowed, and raised her hands. "Celeste, I don't understand."

"_Mother says you're not allowed to shine until you're home_," said another, older voice. "_Someone might realise what you are_."

She snorted. "Just _how_ does she expect to enforce that?"

The star paused, then said, "_Come home. Now. It's not safe on Earth; you don't belong there. You have no idea–"_

"Shut _up_, Nomi," snapped Yvaine. "I know what I'm doing."

"_I doubt that. You're very young–"_

"I am thirty _million_ years old!" she flared. "I know what I'm doing!"

Still behind her, Tristan blurted out, "You are?"

Yvaine turned to him, amusement twisting her lips and draining a little of her anger. "Yes. But that _is_ young for a star." She glanced between him and the sky, then held out her hand. "Come here."

He took it and stepped up to the window, leaning beside her and looking around. There were thousands of stars before them, and he had no idea which one was talking. Yvaine seemed sure, though, for she stared steadily in one direction and made a show of holding his hand.

"Celeste," she said, "I want you to meet Tristan."

Silence.

Yvaine frowned and looked around. "Celeste?" she called. "Nomi?"

Still no answer. Tristan looked at her and quietly asked, "Did I do something?"

"It's nothing you've _done_," Yvaine said tightly, realising. "It's what you are. _Nomi!_" she shouted. "Answer me!"

At last, Nomi said, "_Mother made herself clear: We are forbidden to speak with you until you're home. We shouldn't even be here now._"

Incredulous, Yvaine asked, "She thinks she can _force_ me to change my mind? I love you – all of you – but I won't trade Tristan for more time with you!"

Nomi was silent for a moment. "_Mother says to remember that you are a star, a creature of light, and too good to stay down there with a human._"

Yvaine gaped, outraged. Tristan, who was insulted but not as deeply wounded, argued, "You weren't above talking to me before."

"_We couldn't find Yvaine. It was urgent_," Nomi defended– then caught herself and addressed her furious sister. "_Humans are dangerous. Mother says–"_

"What do _you_ think, Nomi? And why won't she speak for her_self_?" Yvaine demanded. She rounded on the white globe. "Come on, Mother – speak up! You've never been shy about it before! Or are you afraid I might just be _right_?"

Tristan had never seen her quite this angry – neither, apparently, had the two or three people in the street below, who wondered just who she was shouting at. Gently holding her shoulders, he pulled her just a bit back inside, and she softened at his touch. She took a deep breath and calmed down.

"Nomi," she said coldly. "Tell Mother I won't follow orders. This is _my_ life, and my choice. I'm happy here and I'm _not_ going to be killed. Celeste..." she looked in another direction. "I'm sorry. I love you."

There was a quiet wail, and the distant sound of girlish sobs. "_'vaine..._"

Then Nomi's voice, fading fast, said, "_Turn away, Celeste. Mother says we can't..._"

"Mother says a lot of things," Yvaine told the vast, now silent sky. "That doesn't make her _right_."

Then, for lack of any other way to vent her frustration, she slammed the window shut. Jerking the curtains over it, she declared, "I'm not leaving. Ever. I'm _not_ going to die here."

Tristan smiled a little, but had to be truthful and said, "She does have a point, Yvaine. It's not safe here, even if we could somehow hide what you are."

"I know that!"

Hands held up in surrender, he replied, "I know – I know you know. I just meant that now it makes sense why your mother's doing this."

"Oh?" Yvaine said. "Now you're an expert on my family? You didn't even realise what I _am_."

Tristan ignored the jibe. "She's afraid, Yvaine. All she knows is how bad it can be here. She loves you and she's _terrified_ that something awful will happen."

Yvaine glared at him. "Yes, Tristan, I _had_ gathered that much myself."

"But you don't really understand–"

"Don't _understand_?" she snapped, but Tristan held up his hands and stood firm against her temper.

"I've fought with my father before, but you never have – you've never defied her, and she's never had to deal with that. No wonder you're both so bad at it."

Her jaw was clenched and she stood stiffly, but didn't reply. Knowing he'd gotten through, Tristan softened his voice and added, "She doesn't know what else to do, and nothing you can say will _force_ her to change her mind."

Yvaine didn't miss his not-so-subtle quotation. With a sigh she unfolded her arms and sat wearily on the bed. "She's my _mother_, Tristan. I love her as much as she loves me. I don't _want_ to fight with her, or worry her. I just want her to be happy for us."

Joining her, Tristan said, "I don't think Father has _ever_ stopped worrying about me – and, king or no king, I don't think he ever will." He shrugged and gave her a little smile. "Parents."

Yvaine shook her head and rubbed her eyes, fighting the quiet tears that Tristan saw anyway. "What do I do? What... can I possibly do?"

He put one arm around her, drawing her close. "I don't know," he said. "Keep going, I guess. Be patient. Let her see that you're happy here, and she'll come around."

She sniffled. "In thirty million years, Mother has never changed her mind about _anything_."

"Well... there's always a first time."

Yvaine just shook her head, buried her face in his shirt, and cried.

* * *

Morning came, as mornings always do, and Yvaine woke up slowly, curled in the white sheets. One hand was tucked under her pillow and she blinked a few times, seeing the now-familiar room brightened by grey light from the window. It was a cloudy day, lacking any cheer, and it suited her mood perfectly. She felt small and miserable; dim. Her thoughts were turbulent, angry and hurt, and she didn't know what to do.

Tristan, asleep beside her, seemed completely at peace.

Yvaine sighed and lay on her back, untangling her nightgown and trying to keep quiet. She felt bad for spoiling their evening with tears, and she had no idea how long he'd sat there with her, comforting, quietly supportive. He didn't try to make her talk more, as she might have if their positions were reversed; he just waited until her tears had dried, then nodded and smiled gently when she said she was going to sleep.

And she'd needed that sleep. The morning light made her mother's stupid choices seem more distant, and she could wrestle her temper into place. Tristan was right, of course; she had to wait, and it might be centuries before the Moon would relent. Yvaine was determined not to give in and ask for forgiveness – if she ever returned to the sky, it would be on her terms, and if her mother was displeased, that was just too bad. The Moon scolded her children fiercely, but had no way to physically punish or restrain them. Yvaine had no intention of being meekly obedient ever again.

Tristan shifted in his sleep, murmuring something, and she looked at him appreciatively. He really had been too nice about letting her cry for so long, especially when he had his own worries to deal with. It made her feel a bit guilty for adding her problems to that burden, but knowing Tristan, he probably would have insisted.

Sometimes Yvaine wondered if she might be idealising him a little; she knew very well that no one was perfect, and had seen him both annoyed and angry. Then again, this was a man who had seen no shame in repeatedly describing his True Love to a complete stranger. She smiled to herself – what did it matter? They were newly in love, to be married, and things were _supposed_ to be perfect between them.

She shifted again, rolling to face him, and this time the movement woke him up. He blinked with the same stupid-looking groggy expression that he'd worn when transformed back by Sal, but when he smiled this time he said, "_Yvaine_."

"Good morning."

Tristan didn't sit up, but propped his head on one hand and asked, "You all right?"

She gave a small, sad smile. "Yeah. I'm just not used to fighting with her." She shrugged. "I'll be fine."

He nodded, thinking. Then he rolled over and reached for his vest, left somewhere nearby before he went to sleep. "I don't know if this'll cheer you up. I meant to give it to you yesterday – actually, I wanted to get it when I went to see Victoria – but it didn't seem like the right time."

He pulled the silver ring from one pocket and turned back around, lying down and offering it to her. Yvaine smiled as she took it, looking over the tiny gem and the polished band. "It's _lovely_," she declared.

"It belonged to my grandmother. Father gave it to me, to give to you. ...You do know what it is, don't you?"

"I think you _might_ have mentioned that some other boy was off to buy one for Victoria, if that's what you mean," she teased. "It's an engagement ring?"

Tristan smiled and nodded, squeezing her hand. "I'm not doing this properly," he admitted. "I should've had it when I actually asked you."

"If you recall, I said yes anyway," she said, and moved to put it on – on the wrong finger, of the wrong hand.

"No, this one," said Tristan with a smile, and he took it back, lifted her left hand, and slid the ring into place. She admired it, turning her arm in the light, watching it sparkle. "Does it fit?" he asked.

"I think so; I've never worn a ring before." Yvaine smiled. "Thank you, Tristan," she said, and leaned over to kiss him.

It was, in her opinion, a very nice kiss; it lingered, deepened, and they might not have gotten up at all if Hatha hadn't chosen that extremely inconvenient moment to knock on their door.

"Yvaine? Tristan?" she called through the wood. "If you want breakfast you'll have to come down soon."

Tristan groaned and laughed, muffling it in his pillow. Yvaine fought down a giggle and called back, "Coming!"

Hatha's footsteps retreated, and Tristan shook his head. Glad to see her smile, he decided not to let it go. "Let's do something fun today."

"Fun?" Yvaine asked pointedly. "I think Hatha just spoiled that."

He chuckled and said, "No, I mean, let's be silly. Let's go riding, or to the market – something frivolous. My parents won't be here until tomorrow at least, and there's nothing else to do, and we haven't had a chance like this all week. I've never been to a magical market. Haven't been to many markets at all, really."

Yvaine smiled and nodded, brightening, and for a moment that was actually literal.

* * *

Market Town did not come by its name lightly; everything about it was so _busy_, full of life and colour and exotic smells, strange trinkets and loud voices. Unlit lanterns hung between the bright, fluttering fabrics that kept everyone shaded, and stalls were squashed between the stone or wooden structures. Though most of the town was made of normal, permanent buildings, in this vast open square vendors simply claimed a spot and set up shop for as long as they wanted; even now, at noon, some caravans were closed, their owners asleep inside. Most, however, were open for business, with salespeople eagerly calling to anyone who passed by.

They were a varied crowd. A few would have been able to walk through Wall unnoticed, but others... there were men in turbans and horned hats, women wearing long robes or elaborately embroidered dresses, black-skinned Africans and small Chinamen and veiled ladies chattering in some other unknown language. Musicians in several places demonstrated the instruments up for sale, and the drums from this stall here and the wooden flute from that one there overlapped to make a crazy, but rather welcoming atmosphere. There was no order to the place; paths between stalls were winding and narrow, changing every time vendors came and went. A broken wagon full of ale barrels blocked one path, and a furious argument that broke out near the animal pens made another route impossible.

Tristan looked every which-way as they wandered around, hand in hand, determined to have fun. Yvaine was smiling widely, and if he hadn't seen it he'd have never known she'd been crying. The endless displays fascinated her, and while Tristan stared, Yvaine jumped from one to another, looking at and touching everything. There were carpets, wicker baskets, maps, books and furniture; there was a toymaker, an old woman with sewing tools and a man whose pockets bulged with fine charcoal pencils. There was a hat seller and a shoe seller and many, many clothes sellers; strange glowing spheres were sold right beside candles and familiar oil lamps, and many stalls offered flowers, both natural and magical. There was a stall selling cheese and a stall selling rope, and a stall run by artists who barely deserved the name. One was filled with knitting, everything from scarves and hats to coats and – oddly – dresses; several offered herbs and medicines of questionable quality. There was a young man making portraits for anyone who would sit still, and a collection of wonderfully-smelling soaps. A fine stock of hunting tools was set up beside a stall brimming with delicate china, fishing tackle was sold beside a pet stall, and paper and fine pens – quill and fountain – were almost knocked over by the many bolts of fabric next door. Ceramic pots were piled high beside a clockmaker who offered both sundials and brass pocket watches that looked to be from England. Hunters sold animal pelts and assorted disgusting organs, and leatherworkers offered everything from belts to saddles. Every fifth stall seemed to offer jewellery or other useless but pretty trinkets made of anything from wood to ivory, while performers wandered about or stood beside upturned hats, singing badly or trying to juggle. It seemed like a never-ending carnival. There was even a puppet show.

Yvaine and Tristan soon collected a number of little items that were interesting and wanted but certainly not needed; neither cared. It was fun, and they had the money – for those vendors who accepted money – from the sale of the horses and caravan, as well as everything Sal had saved when she died. It was far more than they needed to pay for the inn, and with his father selling so many of their things in Wall, Tristan wasn't the least bit concerned about how much they spent; Yvaine was happy.

On the other hand, stars had no use for money, and she was completely unfamiliar with it. She understood, theoretically, that some things were far too expensive, but had no instincts whatsoever. When Tristan made an offhand remark about one man's jewellery being made of wood rather than gold, he'd had to explain it. Yvaine was quick to learn and interested in everything, but sometimes she took her new fiancé completely by surprise.

"What's 'chocolate'?"

He blinked. They'd been looking at a collection of bags in every size from mouse to mountain, looking for one to carry their new things in. Yvaine had stepped away to talk to the seller, and he thought she was asking for a price. Instead she came back and said quietly, "I smelled something; she said it was 'chocolate'. What _is_ that?"

"All that time in the sky and you've never heard of _chocolate_?" Tristan asked, incredulous. "It's a food – a treat. It's wonderful. We always buy some at Christmas. Come on, let's have some." He offered his hand and she merrily took it. Following their noses (and getting a bit lost when passing a stall of noxious perfumes), they found the seller. This particular shop wasn't temporary; the buildings at the edge of the market square, like the _Slaughtered Prince_, were businesses catering to the constant flow of buyers and sellers, and this bakery apparently did very well to afford so much chocolate. They were obviously making more in the back, but on display were a number of huge, cooling cookies, and Tristan bought two of them.

"Here," he said. "The dark chips are the chocolate – careful, it's hot!"

Yvaine heeded him, but only until she took the first bite. He could _see_ the moment that it touched her tongue; her eyes closed and she gave a small, totally contented moan, savouring the taste. Then she swallowed and immediately took another bite, looking delightedly at him. Her mouth was full and she couldn't speak, but she threw her free hand around his neck and gave him an awkward hug. Tristan laughed.

"It's _wonderful_," she said at last, licking each of her fingers clean. "Really–" lick "–really really wonderful."

"You're going to have a stomach ache, you know," said Tristan, "from eating all that so fast." He gestured to his own cookie, only slightly dented, and jumped back as Yvaine playfully tried to snatch it. "That's _mine_!" he laughed. "Thief!"

She just grinned and tried again. Tristan ate quickly.

They kept going, wandering past many, many sellers and often finding themselves in places they'd already been. Yvaine admired it all and asked him about most of it, wanting to learn everything about actually living on Earth. She was enraptured by tiny statues and painted fans, but had very little interest in jewellery. Tristan joked that she glittered enough anyway, but silently noticed that she hadn't been shining at all, not even by accident.

Eventually they came to the particular clothes stall Hatha had described. Yvaine was still wearing the borrowed rust-red dress, because her blue one would – as Hatha had pointed out – mark her as a rich woman, which might not be wise in this town. As it wasn't particularly suitable for travelling dirt roads anyway, the only thing they'd actually gone out to buy was a sturdier outfit.

The seamstress was a plump woman about Hatha's age, a friend of hers named Danja. She fussed over Yvaine and spent what seemed like hours showing off different colours and styles and many types of fabric. She had uncut bolts but most of her tables were full of second-hand garments, all tailored to fit their original owners. Danja promised that she could alter any of them by nightfall but, in the end, they found a skirt, top, and overdress in various shades of green that fit well enough already. Yvaine also found a cloak and nightdress but kept her old boots, even though Danja complained loudly that the blue-grey leather didn't match.

Tristan spent all that time waiting at the edge of the shop, bored but unwilling to leave Yvaine alone. He'd seen a handful of shady-looking men around, and though he wore his sword almost out of habit, he wasn't comfortable with using it – not, at least, against men who were still alive. He'd memorised the nearby display of hair ornaments and was, for the third time, seriously considering buying a rose-patterned comb for his mother when Yvaine finally emerged from the changing tent. She held her arms wide, showing off the outfit, but beyond the fact that it was green, long-sleeved, and girded with a broad leather belt, he couldn't say much about it.

"Well, what do you think?" Yvaine asked, tucking the snowdrop more securely into her hair. "Do you like it?"

After a moment of searching for any truthful opinion, he said, "You look lovely. But I thought you looked lovely in a bathrobe in a thunderstorm, so I'm not the best person to ask."

For a brief moment she frowned, vaguely wondering if she'd been insulted, then laughed and shook her head. She kissed his cheek. "All right, where do _you_ want to go?"

Tristan led them on.


	7. Chapter Seven

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Seven_

The next few days passed in the same sort of happy haze as their time on the _Caspartine_. Yvaine and Tristan spent hours in the market or helping Hatha, or just sitting around and talking. The stars and moon were still coldly silent, so Tristan quietly made sure that by nightfall they were inside, having dinner and talking about anything but family. Yvaine was still hurt and sad, but after a while she began to sparkle again. Early risers at the inn would blink and rub their eyes when Yvaine and Tristan cheerfully emerged from their room – then smirk, thinking they knew _exactly_ why the two were so happy. They were usually right.

In the evening of Tristan's third day back in Market Town, he and Yvaine decided, on a whim, to have their dinner downstairs. Around the large common room of Hatha's pub were a number of tables, and they sat together in a corner, wondering if the change of scenery was worth the noisy company of the town drinkers. It wasn't; after a while Yvaine wrinkled her nose and said, "Let's not do this again."

As a glass shattered nearby and Hetham began shouting demands for payment, Tristan agreed. "I _did_ think they'd be here by now," he said, getting back to their earlier conversation. "Father said it'd be a few days. Maybe something's gone wrong."

"Are you worried?"

He thought a moment, but shook his head. "No. No, they'll be fine. I guess they had trouble selling all our furniture. It was pretty short notice."

Yvaine had never owned any such things to sell. She just shrugged and took another bite.

Somewhere near the centre of the room, a voice cried, "Oi, barkeep! Where're all the _pretty_ girls?"

Hetham frowned and ignored him, turning back to fill drinks. The bellowing drunk repeated his question, supported by his friends, all young men, and they were loud enough to ruin any real attempt at conversation. After trying to make out Tristan's words twice, Yvaine turned sideways and shouted, "Would you _please_ be _quiet_?"

The four turned and grinned, despite her scowl, pointing at her, chuckling and nudging each other. Neither Tristan nor Yvaine much cared for that, but remained cautiously in their seats while one – clearly the leader – sauntered over. He couldn't have been much older than Tristan, but by his behaviour it was easy to think of him as a boy, not a man, in comparison. Like all his friends he was well dressed – a little _too_ well, in fact. They wore vests and coats made of much richer material than anything the other patrons had, and Tristan was distinctly reminded of Humphrey, showing off his wealth, but without any of the dignity that went with the Englishman's lofty attitude.

"You're good enough," the boy said, looking her over. "Bit skinny, though, and you talk too much." He grinned at his leering friends while Yvaine snarled. "I like challenges," he declared. "You'll come home with me tonight."

"She most certainly will _not_."

Hatha was marching over, taking control before Tristan could even rise from his seat. She put her hands on her hips and glared at the boy. "I am not running a brothel," she continued flatly. "You know where Malva's girls are; go and play with one of them. Leave my guests alone."

The boys laughed. "I know _all_ of Malva's girls – they bore me," the leader boasted, taking a swig of his drink. "You should have more barmaids."

"I don't have _any_, Arden, and for just this reason. I told you that last time. Take your friends and get out of my inn."

Arden's good humour instantly vanished. "You _peasant_! You can't order me around!" He swayed a little with the vehemence of his gestures, and Tristan moved to stand in front of Yvaine. Arden ignored them both, rounding on Hatha with a sharply pointed finger. "She's trying to throw me out! Me!"

Arden's friends were backing him with mostly wordless jeers, standing behind him and lifting their tankards and fists. Nothing intimidated Hatha. "Then do advise your mother that I'll be along to see her tomorrow," she told Arden. "It's been a while since she and I had a good, _long_ chat."

There was a flash of total fury on Arden's face, but before he could retort Hetham and his sons were suddenly there, hauling all four boys away by their collars. There was much shouting and complaining, but as soon as her door was closed, Hatha relaxed and turned back to her guests.

"Sorry about that, dear," she said tiredly, patting Yvaine's shoulder. "Those boys come waltzing in every so often, drunk as lords, and this was one of their worse days." She sighed and shrugged elaborately, apologising. "I'd love to ban them entirely, but... Well, just keep away from them."

Tristan, who had taken his seat again, gestured for the innkeeper to join them and asked, "Why can't you? Ban them, I mean. I saw you turn men away before."

Accepting the seat, Hatha said, "Oh, I wish. But Arden just happens to be the son of our mayor, and they're noblemen – in their own minds, at least. They think they're above courtesy. Mind you, the mother's a fine lass and doesn't fuss about punishing her boys when they need it – and I'm happy to tell her when that is – but Arden is definitely his father's son. There's only so much a good spank will do when your boy's fully grown and fancies himself as royalty."

"So you can't keep him out no matter what he does?" Yvaine asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Last time I tried, our 'kind and generous' mayor suddenly started forgetting to sign off our delivery shipments; closed us down for two weeks."

Tristan frowned. "That's wrong."

"That's life," said Hatha. "But it doesn't matter much. The lad doesn't usually cause any real trouble." Another crash was heard, this one wooden, and Hatha looked up. "Unlike _some_," she grumbled, standing. "This is not my day. Enjoy the beef."

For the rest of their meal, Tristan only picked at it.

* * *

By morning the incident was forgotten, and by noon Yvaine was making her fiancé laugh aloud as she played at the hat seller's stall, trying on everything from a dull brown bowler hat to an enormous feathered contraption that clashed horribly with her green dress. Playfully, she then dropped the thing on Tristan's head and made him stand still while she arranged it, tickling his face with one long feather.

He sneezed. The seller, fed up, asked them to leave.

"That was cruel," complained Tristan, but his heart wasn't in it and Yvaine just grinned, taking a bite of yet another chocolate chip cookie. She'd fallen completely in love with the sweets and bought at least one a day, forcing herself to eat slowly so to relish every bite.

They wandered around a bit more, working their way through the thick crowd and buying some little things that they'd kept seeing and wanting. Tristan's newest bag was getting rather heavy on his shoulder when they once again ran into Arden.

Literally.

"You _clumsy_–!"

"Sorry!" Tristan said quickly, polite habits speaking before he realised just who this was. Arden, appeased by what he saw as submission, had already turned away.

The boy was alone this time, sober but no less haughty as he examined a collection of very well-crafted ornaments. The stall belonged to one of the wealthiest sellers in the market; his brooches, bracelets, purses, knives, cufflinks and other trinkets were inlaid with silver and small gems, and some even had gold. He was nonetheless a small, rather unimpressive man, and Arden, who was heavily built, seemed to ignore him entirely as he examined the merchandise.

He didn't recognise Yvaine, either, but unlike Tristan, she had no intention of giving Arden wide berth – in fact, she made a point of examining the items as well, very nearly pushing him aside, though they both knew none were interesting enough to be worth the price.

Nothing came of her prodding, though, and Arden continued to lift the goods – mostly the small daggers – without paying the slightest bit of attention to other customers whose way he blocked. Yvaine scowled again. Tristan quietly took her hand and they were walking away when Arden loudly announced, "This one is faulty!"

"What?" the seller exclaimed. "That's not true – no, no, ridiculous!" he assured other customers, smiling warmly. "I always check my work; I'd never make any money if word got out that I sold flawed products," he said reasonably.

"Unless you thought you could cheat us," the boy replied. "I'm confiscating this as evidence."

"N-Now wait just a minute!" the seller cried, starting to become frantic as everyone nearby turned to see the commotion. "I'm no cheat, young man – show me what you think is wrong. I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding–"

"I will do no such thing!" Arden kept his hands closed around the jewelled dagger. "I will be speaking with my father, and rest assured that you will never be allowed to trade in Market Town again!"

"You'll _ruin_ me!" the man cried. "You know I'm innocent; the mayor's notoriously unfair–"

In a flash, Arden unsheathed the dagger and held it straight at the true owner's throat. "Are you insulting my father?"

There was a long pause, and at last the craftsman deflated. "No," he said. Arden tilted his head and smiled coldly.

"Good."

Tristan had seen enough. He looked around and found a uniformed soldier, one of the handful that roamed Market Town. He was apparently off-duty and intently focused on the many types of rope being sold nearby. Followed closely by Yvaine, Tristan moved through the crowd and tapped the man's shoulder. "Have you seen what's happening?" he asked, pointing.

The soldier, a man about his father's age, looked pained. "...Yes," he said. "Yes, I have."

Tristan waited. "And? What are you going to do? This _must_ be illegal."

"Well, yes. Technically. But he's the mayor's son, and the mayor represents the king in this town. I can't just arrest him."

"But _look_ at that," Yvaine argued, pointing to where Arden was smugly lecturing the humiliated vendor on the importance of proper respect. "There's nothing wrong with that dagger and you _know_ it."

The soldier shook his head. "I wish I could help, miss, but unless that boy actually kills someone even my captain won't stand a chance at taking him down. We're far from the king's law and the mayor is blind and deaf when he wants to be. And he's the man in charge of actually enforcing law, so..." he shrugged. "I can't no more than you."

Yvaine turned to Tristan, the obvious solution on her lips, but bit her tongue just in time.

Tristan's brow was furrowed and he frowned in Arden's direction. He was thinking the same thing. He knew that if Una was there, she would be talking about how this was an example of noblemen getting above their station and how this could worsen until they would actually challenge the throne and upset the system of power in Stormhold... But really, Tristan wasn't concerned with any long-reaching political implications. All he saw here was an honest man driven to despair as a bratty little boy wheedled his way out of paying for something he could easily afford. Arden _offended_ him in a way Tristan had never felt before. His jaw clenched, he thought, _This has to stop_...

And, quite suddenly, he found that he'd made his decision.

Giving Yvaine their bag, Tristan motioned for her to stay back, and walked towards them. Arden only saw him when Tristan blocked his view of the merchant. He frowned, trying to place the memory, and Tristan said, "That doesn't belong to you. Give it back."

There was a long pause as Arden stared, trying to work out if this was a joke; he rocked back on his heels and folded his arms. "No," he said lightly. "This is evidence that he's trying to cheat the honest people of my town."

"If it really is faulty, there's no harm in letting him see it. Give it back."

Arden laughed. "And give him the chance to swap it for a good one? You think I'm an idiot?" he chortled.

"No, I think you're a liar."

Folded arms turned to fists and Arden stiffened. "How DARE you?" he cried dramatically, startling everyone nearby. "How dare you say that to me? ME! Don't you know who I AM?" He carelessly waved the knife around, deliberately attracting an audience. "This is outrageous – I'll have you both beheaded! _You_ for trying to swindle me and _you_ for...! For...!"

Lost for even an excuse, Arden drew the short sword from his belt, holding the dagger in his other fist.

As the soldier rushed forth to stop the brawl, Yvaine at his heels, Tristan stood perfectly still. Though sweat trickled down his neck and the steel was so _very_ close to his nose, he made no move for his own sword. He knew better than to think he could win this fight even if he _were_ willing to kill Arden. The boy was obviously skilled with his weapon, and it wouldn't solve the original problem.

"I won't fight you," said Tristan. "You're going to put that down, and give the knife back." As Arden gaped, fuming, Tristan readied himself for the next step. "That's an _order_."

Arden – young, foolish, childish Arden – was utterly bewildered. No one, even that horrible woman at the inn, had ever dared to challenge him this way. "You can't _do_ that... You... _peasant_..."

At that moment, it might have been possible to lie, to solve this problem without committing himself, but Tristan didn't slink away, or wait for the truth the be forced from him. He stood there, free to choose, and announced to the crowd, "My name is Tristan Thorn. My mother is Princess Una of Stormhold, and I promise you, I _can_ do this."

That was it. For better or worse, the decision was made.

Yvaine was literally beaming. Everyone else was stunned. A few faces lit up in awe and delight, but then somebody sniggered, the silence broke, and others began to laugh. "Yeah, sure!" one jeered.

"Hey, I'm royalty, too!"

"Yeah, we all are, aren't we, boys?"

"I order you to give _me_ the knife!"

"And everything else!"

The laughter went on, and Yvaine scowled as even those who seemed to believe shook their heads and chuckled, too. "He _is_ Una's son," she declared, walking forward. "And he will be the next King of Stormhold." Her glare swept across them all, including the baffled soldier, while Tristan kept his eyes fixed on Arden.

The boy was wary now, thrown off balance and clearly afraid of the possibility. Yet he kept his wits about him, and had enough sense to say, "Prove it."

Tristan faltered. He'd focused so much on making his choice that he'd never thought about _proving_ it. Una had mentioned that there was a way to do so even if no one recognised her, but she'd never said what it was. Then Tristan remembered something, and took the ruby from his inner pocket. "This belonged to th–" _the king_ "–my grandfather. He sent all his sons to find it, and it was clear until I touched it."

Arden paused, but only briefly. "That's _all_?" he sneered. "I have jewels that big – bigger! Can you prove it's _the_ royal ruby?"

The answer was no, of course not. Yvaine had held it a few times since the necklace broke and it had never changed again. Tristan had no idea what to say.

A miracle came in the form of the soldier, who stepped between them. He seemed almost disappointed by Tristan, and obviously didn't believe a word of his claim. "Gentlemen, I think I can settle this," he said. "There is one foolproof test, if you would agree to it?"

He was looking at Tristan, who simply nodded. In a blur of motion, the soldier produced a dagger and sliced his palm.

The blood that spilled from it was a cold, vivid blue.

In an instant, Arden dropped to his knees, closely followed by the stunned soldier and everyone else in sight. Tristan didn't see and did not, for a moment, care. He stared at his hand, scarcely breathing, as blue blood swallowed the ruby. He was in shock. Always before, his blood had been as red as the next man's, and to _see_ this... Blue, _blue_ blood...

Cool, gentle hands pressed a cloth into his palm. Yvaine stood before him, holding down a handkerchief and staunching the flow. She snatched up the slick gemstone and closed his fingers to keep the cloth in place. Her hands lingered around his, squeezing them, supporting him. Tristan looked up and saw her smile, and he let out his breath. Of course. If she could be turned to rock and powder just by crossing the wall, then why couldn't this magical land change the colour of his blood? Yes, that had to be it. _Had_ to be.

Yvaine stepped back, and then Tristan could see everyone around them, kneeling, hushed and waiting. Some, those who had jeered him, were stark white and obviously terrified. Tristan couldn't handle it. "Please get up," he said. "Please, everyone..."

They did so slowly, stumbling here and there, and Tristan turned to the sheet-white Arden, whose hands clenched the jewelled dagger like a lifeline. "That doesn't belong to you," he said again. "Give it back."

Arden instantly thrust it at the merchant.

Everyone kept staring, straight at him. Tristan tried to smile, to make everything okay, to make them just go away. Part of him wanted to take it all back, to deny the title and responsibility and just run, run far from this place... But he couldn't, not now. The choice was made.

He turned to the soldier, whose bloodied knife was held in trembling hands. "Thank you," he said softly.

The man briefly slumped, relieved, then stood ramrod straight gave a sharp salute. "Of course, Your Highness," he said. "I am at your command." He spoke as though reciting a speech, not casually the way they'd talked before. It didn't help.

Then he turned to Yvaine, who smiled at him and shrugged just as she always had. The knot in his chest loosened. He hesitated, then said, "Let's go."

* * *

They were followed, of course, by people eager to know more about their new prince, but Tristan couldn't face that just now, so Yvaine took charge, bulling their way through the market and back to Hatha's empty inn. By the time they walked inside, only the soldier – a lieutenant named Eldon, as they would later learn – was still there. He seemed confused by it all, but kept pace with them as though his life depended on it.

"What are you doing?" Yvaine asked irritably, turning around as they reached their room. "Why are you following us?"

"I thought it prudent, ma'am, until your escort returns."

"We don't _have_ an escort."

Eldon was startled. "You... you have no security at all?"

Yvaine was ready to make a snarky comment about just _when_ protective soldiers might have been useful, but Tristan shook his head tiredly and said, "We're fine, thank you. We're just waiting for my parents to arrive."

He relaxed. "Then the princess has an armed guard?"

"Oh, yes, of _course_," drawled Yvaine. "She's been missing for twenty years and no one knows she's still alive. Of _course_ there are soldiers with her."

The soldier frowned, annoyed by this young woman's cheek, before realising she was probably the Prince's lady and likely to be the next queen. He bowed and backed away, mumbling something about informing his commanding officer. "Yes, yes, just go," grumbled Yvaine, and she shut the door.

Tristan sank onto the bed, surprised to find himself shaking. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, clenching both hands. Yvaine kissed his forehead and sat down, brushing away stray locks of hair. She, too, looked at his hands.

He opened the left one, letting the blue-soaked cloth fall away from his wound. It was a shallow cut and the blood had mostly dried, and darker flakes were crumbling away from his palm, which itself was stained in every line and crease. He ran his fingers over the slice, feeling a sting as the flesh protested, and shook his head. "I should have realised," he said. "Septimus had blue blood. So did Primus. I saw it. I thought I was crazy, but I saw it. I never asked why. I guess I just didn't want to think about it."

Yvaine was nodding as he spoke. "It's always been red before?"

"Always. But I never hurt myself on this side of the wall." Looking up, he managed a small smile. "Stars don't have silver blood or something, do they?"

She smiled back. "I don't actually know." There was a pause then, as Tristan's eyes slid back to his palm, and Yvaine knew he wasn't thinking about the colour. "You did the right thing, you know," she told him.

"I hope so," said Tristan. "I really, really hope so."

Yvaine shook her head, touching his shoulder in assurance. "I'm sure of it," she replied. "You _can_ be a good king; you were so confidant out there."

He almost laughed. "No, I wasn't – I just imitated Mother. I was terrified."

"Trust me, Tristan, no one could tell."

Comforted, he relaxed enough to give a genuine smile. "I guess I don't have to practice then, do I?" he teased, and Yvaine smiled. Tristan straightened a bit, shaking his head. "It's funny. Thinking about it now, I didn't _have_ to do anything. I could have told Mother and I'm sure she would've taken care of that merchant. Then she'd go off to the city and we could have found a small village to live in, somewhere..."

"But?" Yvaine prompted.

"But what if something like this happened again?" he asked. "I _am_ a prince of Stormhold. I can't change that. I have this authority, and I'm always going to have it. If we lived out in the country and this happened again, I wouldn't be able to _not_ help. Not if the only thing stopping me was keeping our secret." He shrugged. "That'd be selfish. So I have to be king."

For a long moment, Yvaine watched him, her smile and her skin brightening until he had to blink. "Tristan," she said at last, "now I remember _exactly_ why I'm in love with you."

Touched, he smiled cheekily. "How could you forget?"

She grinned and pounced, knocking him off balance as she kissed him. Tristan laughed, barely keeping them upright–

And then Hatha, who really did have _awful_ timing, knocked on the door. "Cleaning!" she called habitually, not expecting anyone to actually be inside. Tristan sat straight and shoved his left hand into a pocket.

Hatha came in and her idle humming stopped abruptly. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I thought you were going to the market to– ...day..."

She stopped dead, sharp eyes finding the blue stains on their fingers, and her gaze dropped to the bloodied cloth that had fallen, forgotten, to the floor.

"Oh," said Tristan.

For a long moment, Hatha was actually speechless. She looked up, and Tristan willingly exposed his torn palm.

With one clack of her boots Hatha reached them, and she cradled his hand in her own, just staring at it. "...Well," she said at last. "I think I'll be having a word with _your_ mother, too."

"I'm sorry," said Tristan, "we should have told you..." but Hatha just shook her head and waved it off, most decidedly _not_ bowing to him.

"Oh, it's quite all right, I understand. Really, I should have guessed. There was always something odd about Una's manners and– oh, and her name is _Una_. Of course. Of _course_." She laughed at herself, then clapped her hands. "Anyway," she said briskly, "you'll need something to clean that, and a proper bandage, too. Just wait there, I'll be back."

"Hatha!" he called quickly, and she paused and turned. "Thank you."

She smiled, nodded, and left.

After a moment Yvaine declared, "I _like_ her."

Tristan agreed, and hoped that most of the people they'd meet would be like her, able to see that he didn't want lots of formality. But deep inside he knew that was foolishly optimistic, as was confirmed when Hatha returned, frowning, with a tray of cloths and two soldiers. "These gentlemen _insisted_ on seeing you," she said.

One was the lieutenant they'd already met, Eldon. The other was an older, stiffer man with an elaborate uniform slightly skewed by hurried dressing. His face was drawn in long, drooping lines that gave him a look of morbid resignation. His salute was perfect and his eyes fixed straight ahead. Yvaine immediately disliked him, and Tristan was uncomfortable as he said, "Hello."

"Your Highness, I beg leave to introduce myself! I am Captain Oltran of the Royal Guard!"

His voice was like a trumpet. Tristan gestured for him to keep it down and said, "I suppose you already know who I am."

"Yes, sir! We are pleased to meet you, sir! We are at your service, sir!"

Hatha quietly snorted as she opened a bottle. Yvaine, behind both soldiers, was silently mimicking and exaggerating the captain's formal exclamations. Tristan had a hard time keeping his face straight. "Please, not so loud. We don't want everyone to know about this."

"Sorry, sir!"

Tristan rolled his eyes, then winced as Hatha wiped his palm with a cloth soaked in alcohol. "Why have you come, Captain?" he asked. "And _don't_ shout."

Oltran obediently lowered his voice. "Your Highness, I am here to inform you that my men and I are at your disposal. Our lives are dedicated to the service of your family. I will personally lead your private escort until such time as you and your lady mother are safe at home in the Royal Palace."

A constant guard. Perfect. Yvaine shot him a pleading glance, but Tristan, pausing, wasn't thinking of their privacy. He was remembering witches with knives and men who sought immortality. He remembered his own words: _I can't risk people seeing you. I don't trust anyone._ Then he looked at the captain and said, "I'm not worried about myself." Tristan gestured to his fiancée. "Protect Yvaine; she's in more danger."

Oltran turned to see a young woman glaring daggers at the prince. "...As you wish, Sire. I will send for more men–"

"No," snapped Yvaine. "This is ridiculous. I'm safe, remember?" and she tapped the glass snowdrop that was braided into her hair.

"From spells," said Tristan, "not swords. Please, Yvaine."

She folded her arms, but after a moment she sighed, relented, and grumbled, "Well there's no need for _more_ soldiers. I'm going to be with you all the time anyway."

Tristan relaxed, glad she wasn't going to be stubborn. Hatha finished wrapping the bandage and patted his hand. "There you are," she said.

"Thank you," replied Tristan, and he looked back at the captain. "My mother's in Wall; she's safe there. After they get here we'll start to travel to the city."

"When will Her Highness arrive?"

"I'm not sure," he replied. "My father said–"

"Let's find out," Yvaine snapped, still irritated. "It's not like we can go to the market anymore, can we? I'm not staying here all day."

Both because he agreed and just out of gratitude that she was accepting protection, Tristan nodded. She would have to stay on this side of the wall, of course, but at least they would be doing something. "We can take Primus' horses," he suggested.

"I'll have Rugal saddle them for you," offered Hatha, shuffling out.

Captain Oltran asked, "Will a four man escort suffice, Your Highness, or would you prefer all twelve?"

Tristan bit back a groan. "Four. Four is _more_ than enough."

"As you wish, sir."


	8. Chapter Eight

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Eight_

The ride was painfully slow. Yvaine was still in a sour mood and the soldiers seemed to have a rule, written or not, that speaking with royalty required salutes and trumpet voices no matter how friendly said royal was trying to be. A casual request for their names brought on a long, dull recitation of statistics, hometowns and ancestry – none of which meant a thing to Tristan – and trying to talk about himself brought on the kind of bland replies given to a teacher of very boring subjects. After a half hour, he gave up.

Nudging his horse, Tristan moved ahead to join Yvaine. Her jaw was tight and she didn't greet him. Her irritation with the escort hadn't improved when they'd seen her rather embarrassing attempts to mount a horse. It couldn't have been more obvious that she'd never done so before. Stars didn't have any magical ability to deal with animals – the unicorn, being magical itself, was an exception, and it was intelligent enough to do everything but talk back. Leading an animal by reins wasn't hard either, but actually riding, with saddles and stirrups? Yvaine had managed to scare both her stallion and herself in the process, stumbling into a pile of (thankfully clean) hay. She'd tried, really she had, but these horses were trained to pull a carriage, not be ridden, and Yvaine simply couldn't learn to control the animal that quickly. Hatha's son Rugal, the stable hand, let her borrow a placid old mare instead. To make her feel better, Tristan borrowed one too.

The soldiers had said nothing, waiting patiently outside the stables, watching it all. Yvaine, red-faced, had marched right past them. Now it seemed her embarrassment had cooled, but not her temper.

For a while they rode side-by-side in silence, crossing the open plain between Market Town and the forest. Carefully, Tristan asked, "Are you angry with me, or just angry?"

She let out a quick, sharp sigh. "Just angry," she scowled. "It's hard to be mad _at_ you when I know exactly why you did it." Almost absently, she added, "Moron."

He nodded and said nothing, not the least bit offended. They weren't having a particularly good day to start with, and the overly serious manner in which these soldiers took their duty was starting to grate. Glancing back, Tristan was annoyed to see them talking casually among themselves. He would have been much more comfortable if these men had just allowed him to be their friend, instead of... _this_. But, to be fair, if Primus and Septimus were at all typical of the Stormhold princes – _my uncles_, he had to remind himself – that sort of behaviour was probably expected of them. From what little he actually knew of English royalty, it was just the same over there. Tristan vaguely wondered if such people had any friends.

As they approached the woods, the soldiers came closer, tightening their circle so that two men rode ahead of their charges, the other two behind. This was a good thing, for when another rider suddenly appeared on the winding, narrow road, they were so close that had there been a threat, the men wouldn't have had time to catch up. But there was no danger, this time – the lone rider was Una.

"Mother?" said Tristan, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same thing." She rode up to them, side-saddle in deference to the same long blue dress she'd worn all week. Her eyes rested on the soldiers, all of whom dismounted to offer her a proper bow.

"We are honoured, Princess Una," said the captain. "May I be the first to officially welcome you back to Stormhold."

Una nodded politely. "Thank you, Captain...?"

"Oltran, Your Highness."

"Captain Oltran," she nodded. "I see you've met my son."

"Yes, Your Highness," said Oltran, and he bowed again. Una moved past him, dismissing him, and looked to Tristan, speaking a little more quietly.

"What happened? I thought you wanted to keep this a secret until you– ...made your decision." Her eyes lit up. "Tristan? Have you...?"

He nodded and, offering his bandaged hand, gave the briefest possible explanation. With each word she brightened, and it was clear that she couldn't have been more proud of him. Though still largely unhappy with it himself, Una's glee drew a small smile from him anyway.

She leaned out of the saddle to give him a one-armed hug, kissing his cheek. "I'm so glad. You'll be a fine king, Tristan," she said.

Biting back another _I hope so_, he just smiled and nodded back.

Una turned to Yvaine, who had been remarkably silent, and gave her a hug too, as though she'd been the one to accomplish something. "Congratulations. You're going to be a wonderful queen."

Yvaine, however, clearly wasn't feeling very lucky, and did not return the embrace. "Oh, yes, thank you," she said dryly. "We're already having a _wonderful_ time. No one will stop bowing, we're followed everywhere, and _they_ won't even talk to us like normal people! Definitely something to be thankful for. I can _hardly_ wait."

A little startled by her intensity, Una said nothing, and the guards shifted uncomfortably. Quietly, Tristan said, "Yvaine, if you don't want this... It's your life, too; your choice. I know you said you don't mind, but... Tell me if you still want this," he said. "Just tell me."

It was really unfair of him. Yvaine knew perfectly well that if she asked for it, Tristan would abandon the throne for her in a heartbeat. Now, after all she'd said to talk him into at least trying, after she'd comforted and praised him for his accomplishment, how could she _possibly_ ask that? Maybe he was just trying to make clear how much he cared about her happiness, but Yvaine resented being put in such a position. Coldly, she replied, "I can handle it."

The tension between them could have been cut with a knife. Quite surprisingly, the one to break it wasn't Tristan, well-meant but a little clumsy, nor Una, who was only starting to see royal life from their point of view. It was one of the soldiers, the youngest, who on sight had become completely enamoured of Yvaine, and had stared shamelessly at her during the incident at the stables.

He stammered as he spoke, red-faced and enduring the glare of his captain. "M'lady?" he asked tentatively, looking up at her. "M'lady, I want to apologise if we've made you uncomfortable. Really, we– ...I. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

Yvaine softened a little. "What makes me _uncomfortable_ is all this stupid formality. I don't like it, Tristan doesn't like it, and I can't imagine that you like having to bow all the time. So why do this to us?"

"...Protocol, ma'am."

She groaned, shaking her head. Then an idea struck and she straightened. "I'm going to be queen," she announced. "I'm changing the protocols."

Tristan raised both eyebrows and Una looked amused, but Oltran sputtered, "We can't just– ...oh." Suddenly remembering his place, he jerked into a stiff stance once again. "I'm sorry, m'lady, forgive me–"

"Shut up," Yvaine said lightly. "I'm _ordering_ all of you to call me by name, and to talk to me as if I'm your friend. Or sister. Something like that. Understand?"

Oltran looked as though he'd just swallowed his tongue. "Yes, ma'a–" He caught himself. "Er... yes... Yes." He just couldn't seem to get her name out. Yvaine, however, seemed satisfied, and her bad mood faded. She grinned at Tristan, extremely pleased with herself, and he just shook his head, chuckling.

Una, too, was amused, but decided it would be wise to change the subject before they gave this old captain a heart attack or broke too many traditions. Tristan was going to have a hard enough time holding the throne simply for being so different, and coming in with all sorts of radical new policies might be the best way to brew disaster. "Tristan, why _are_ you here?" she asked, gesturing around. "You said you'd be in town. I'm glad to see you, of course," she assured them. "Your timing is very convenient; I was just coming to find you."

"We were a bit worried," Tristan replied. "I thought you and Father would have arrived by now."

"Yes," Una winced. "Well, we had a... a _little_ trouble getting here."

* * *

'A _little_' didn't exactly cover it.

Dunstan Thorn stood alone at the gap in the wall, arms folded, frowning as he examined the problem. Simply put, they were completely and utterly _stuck_.

It had taken far longer than expected to sort and pack everything he wanted to keep from that small house, even when he thought he was being discriminate. Sentiment had lost out to practicality, but a handful of family keepsakes were there, along with many pictures. Una had insisted that they take most of Tristan's childhood toys, and she'd asked detailed questions about each one, searching, he knew, for bits and pieces to fill the gap of memories she should have had of their son.

All that, along with what Dunstan had expected to pack, had built up to quite a large pile of luggage, all of which had to be moved at once. Finding a wagon hadn't been easy; there weren't many that size in Wall to begin with, and those that weren't needed by the owners had mostly been borrowed by Mr Robinson to lug the other formerly-Thorn-family belongings to nearby towns along with his usual wares. At last John Monday had offered them his old, flat platform wagon, but one wheel was cracked and had to be replaced. Then Dunstan had to buy a horse to pull it, and amidst all that Mr Comfrey came by to negotiate a price for the house.

Una had been a godsend. Perhaps it was just the lingering euphoria of her freedom, but nothing seemed to bother her. She made him laugh with her jokes, chatted pleasantly, cooking and cleaning diligently – and said she was just glad to be doing this for him instead of Sal. Her endless questions made him remember so many of those little happy stories about his life that tend to be forgotten from day to day. Still, it had been hard work, and while neither begrudged Tristan for going back to his Yvaine, it would have been nice to have the extra pair of hands.

But they'd managed, and at last the trunks had been loaded, the favoured bits of furniture lashed down, and off they'd gone...

...only to find that their wagon wouldn't go through the gap. Thus their current predicament.

The gap was just too narrow, even if the stones themselves hadn't been too high and uneven to drive over. After throwing around some ideas – asking the villagers to help lift it, trying to build a ramp – they decided to take down all the luggage, tilt the empty wagon on its side, carry it through, then reload on the other side. But there was a lot to move, and they'd needed help from Dunstan's friends to load it the first time, so Una had taken the horse into Market Town to fetch Tristan and borrow her friend Hatha's sons.

It wasn't hard to untie all the ropes that held down the loose furniture, which was now strewn across the grass, or to move the numerous bags, but the large, heavy chests were a different matter. Dunstan was just about to sit down and wait when Una emerged from the woods far sooner than expected, followed by Tristan, a lovely girl that had to be Yvaine, and four soldiers.

Dunstan frowned a little as he climbed down and walked towards them, but it seemed like nothing was wrong; Una looked fit to burst with delight. She smiled and waved merrily at him, then directed her soldiers to the gap. Tristan and Yvaine approached him, and Dunstan saw that his son looked rather glum. He waved without enthusiasm as they neared, dismounting and reaching up to help his young lady.

Then the girl said something that made Tristan's face split into a grin. He laughed and lifted her down.

That laugh alone endeared her to Dunstan. There had been times when he'd seen his son talk to Miss Forester, and she'd never once brought such genuine joy to Tristan. This Yvaine was pretty, yes, but it was clear that Tristan wasn't admiring her beauty. His eyes never left her, but there was no reverence in his gaze, just affection. Love.

They held hands and walked up. Tristan opened his mouth to make introductions, but Yvaine strode forth and said, "You're Tristan's father. I'm glad to meet you."

Well, she was certainly a bold one – no coy or delicate airs, no shyness or false modesty. She was bright and cheerful, and though she didn't _look_ much like a star, Dunstan found himself smiling warmly, and reached for her outstretched hand. "And I you, Yvaine. Welcome to our family."

He'd meant to lift her hand and compliment the ring, perhaps offer a polite little bow, but before he had a chance Yvaine took hold of his hand and firmly shook it.

Tristan, beside them, laughed. "Yvaine," he said, "shaking hands is a gentlemen's greeting. Women don't do that."

"Oh," said Yvaine, completely unashamed. She shrugged. "Sorry."

Dunstan chuckled. "That's all right." He glanced at Tristan and raised his eyebrows. _I see why you like her_. There was a brief pause and then he asked, "Do you like the ring?"

Yvaine smiled brightly. "It's beautiful, I love it," she said. "Tristan said it was yours?"

"My mother's. It's a tradition in our family to pass them on."

"I like that," she said simply, gazing at it. "Thank you."

Dunstan was about to reply, to offer some trivia about the ring or his family, but stopped as he caught sight of the flower in her hair. The glass flower; Una's snowdrop. For a moment he blinked, surprised and faintly annoyed. For all that Yvaine was soon to be his daughter, that gift had been cherished by both father and son as their only link to a missing mother. It was too personal to give away, to anyone. But then he remembered Tristan's story, about how the flower saved his life, and suddenly it was no surprise at all. It was a very typical thing for Tristan to do.

He tuned back into the conversation and for a few minutes the four of them talked pleasantly about nothing in particular. Then a soft _thump_ was heard, followed by muffled cursing, and Dunstan turned around. The soldiers he'd forgotten about were behind them, just through the gap, quietly and efficiently taking his trunks down from the wagon. From the way they were standing, only Una had been able to see all along. Dunstan asked her, "Why are they...?"

"I told them to."

Tristan seemed surprised as well; father and son exchanged glances. The intention had been to have _help_ doing all the lifting, not assign it and stand by idly. Una seemed untroubled, but mystified by their expressions. "What is it?"

The men looked uncomfortable, perhaps more with her question than the original problem. At last Dunstan asked, "Why are there soldiers here?"

Tristan answered, without pride or reluctance, "They know, Father. They know I'm going to be king."

He was fingering a new bandage on his hand, and though Dunstan didn't know what it meant, he asked, "They found out?"

"No. I told them."

Slowly, Dunstan nodded, and a proud smile spread across his face. He clapped Tristan's shoulder; his son really had grown up.

Tristan unwound the bandage. "They wanted proof. I had no idea this was what he meant."

Though the question was directed at Una, Tristan kept his eyes on his father. "Why is my blood blue, Mother?"

He showed them both the wounded palm; Dunstan blanched. Una laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I don't know, Tristan – no one knows. It's a trait that's lasted for at least eighty generations of the royal family." She smiled wryly. "My father liked to think it was a sign that we were the rightful rulers of the entire world."

"You have it too?" asked Dunstan, finding this logical explanation oddly comforting. She nodded.

"I can show you, if you need that, but yes, I do. My father, grandfather, and all my brothers did." To Tristan she said, "All your children will."

Very deliberately _not_ looking at Yvaine, Tristan said, "In England we have a saying about blue blood, and it does mean that someone has noble or royal ancestors, but it's not literal."

"Really?" asked Una, intrigued. "You must have picked that up from us, somehow. Someone who crossed the wall, I suppose."

By this point Dunstan had gotten over the shock and was looking at Tristan's palm with curiosity. "Will it turn red again on the other side?"

"Probably."

He nodded and glanced back at the gap, and again saw the soldiers. They had taken down all the trunks and were carefully turning the wagon onto its side, preparing to lift it through. He paused, frowned, and suddenly announced, "I'm going to help them. Excuse me."

And, rolling up his sleeves, off he went. After a moment, Tristan followed.

There was no way to know what the men thought of Dunstan, for he appeared to be nothing more than a country villager from that strange place called 'England'. If he hadn't been introduced as the prince's father, Oltran's men might have looked down their noses at him. As it was, they accepted his help without fuss, nodding thanks and directing him to the most helpful position.

When Tristan came, however, Oltran nearly dropped his corner while habitually snapping into a salute. Tristan frowned and pulled off his coat, leaning down and shouldering the front wheel. He was accepted without a word, but only out of bewilderment.

Standing well clear of the gap, Yvaine looked at Una. The former slave girl was frowning and shaking her head. "What's wrong?" the star asked. "They only want to help. They feel bad about it."

"I know, Yvaine, but it's not proper, especially not for Tristan. We're royalty; we're supposed to keep up an image. Demanding to be called by name is one thing, but this... is going a bit too far."

Yvaine shrugged. "I think they appreciate it. It makes them like him."

"Yes, it does," said Una, "and it's always a good thing to be liked by the people. But if you have to give difficult orders, it's much harder when they're your friends. Do you really think Tristan could send these men to war after he's come to know them personally?"

It wasn't a question Yvaine had ever considered. "I don't think it matters if they're his friends," she said at last. "Tristan wouldn't send anyone to their death."

"Someday he may have to."

* * *

A while later, with the horse hitched up and the wagon loaded, Tristan's entire family finally made their way into Stormhold. A single soldier was left behind; Tristan had insisted that his promise to the village be kept even if they couldn't arrange for an official Wall Guard just yet. For part of the ride Tristan talked to Captain Oltran, explaining what he wanted while the Captain told him what could reasonably be done. "I don't have that many men, Sire, and we have duties in Market Town already. We'll be stretched to the limit by sending away your escort. One man at a time is all I can spare."

Tristan frowned but accepted this. "Well, we could send more men from the garrison in the next town, couldn't we?"

"That would be _most_ welcome, Your High–" He caught Tristan's warning, half-amused expression. "Sir. Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome."

Yvaine and Una spent most of the ride talking, just as they had on their last trip to Market Town. They were sitting on the back of the wagon – Una elegantly, with her legs folded, Yvaine casually swinging her feet off the edge – and when Tristan rode past them, his mother was asking about the green dress. Yvaine described Danja's stall, but only shrugged at the other questions. "I never asked what it's made of," she said. "I don't care."

Mostly, Tristan talked to his father, who was driving the wagon. Oltran and his men kept to their places ahead of or behind the family, and the women were out of earshot, so they had some semblance of privacy. Tristan felt like he needed to explain his decision better, but Dunstan said, "You don't have to justify yourself to me, son. You don't need my permission."

He smiled, and after a moment replied, "I'd like to have it anyway."

Dunstan smiled. "Well, you do. You have my blessing. I do think you did the right thing, but I have to say, I wouldn't have done it myself."

"No?"

"No. All this, what you're about to do... it scares me, Tristan," he said frankly. "That kind of responsibility is too much for me. But then," he added in a teasing tone, "I don't have blue blood. Maybe that makes a difference."

Tristan laughed.

When the moment sobered, Dunstan glanced back at the ladies talking beyond the large pile of luggage. Quietly, he added, "If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask me anyway, all right? Your mother can be a bit... Well, I think she's expecting more than you're ready for."

His son smiled, nodding at the truth of it. "Thank you, Father."

* * *

As they left the woods, Tristan directed their party to the side of the town walls where they'd left Primus' carriage several days before. While riding out earlier, a number of people had already seemed to recognise him, and he would be happy to leave them behind as soon as possible. No one questioned or argued with him, but Tristan politely explained their goal to the soldiers and his father.

Dunstan was intrigued by such a casual, practical use of magic, and watched in fascination as Una approached one specific, very empty spot. Holding out the glass rose she'd worn on her collar, Una ran her hands up and down around a huge shape, even stepping up onto thin air as she dragged her charm around. As she walked around the 'back', a dark, blurry haze blocked their view of her, and as she completed the circle, it solidified into a grand, elegant black carriage.

He had to touch it before he believed it was real.

Glancing back, he saw that Tristan wore a similar silly grin, which faded abruptly as his mother opened the doors. Dunstan knew what was in there.

Yvaine held her nose. Preserved or not, the blankets were stained with old blood, and she was _not_ going to breathe that air.

Una instructed the soldiers to carefully lift the body out, and unwrapped the fabric with a stony expression. The face within resembled her, Dunstan thought. They had the same nose and brow, unlike Tristan, who shared his mother's eyes and mouth. This man's mouth turned down, giving him a perpetually solemn look. It wasn't hard to believe what Tristan said he'd done.

Una had talked very little of her family, despite his many questions in these past few days. She'd been happy to share funny stories of childish mischief in the palace – she'd even described this brother, Septimus, teaching her to ride a horse – but then her eyes would drop, her voice would soften, and she'd abruptly end the tale.

She looked at the soldiers. "Has word been spread that Primus is also dead?"

"Yes, Your Highness. His body was returned by one of Prince Septimus' men. All your brothers are accounted for."

Her nod was short, businesslike, and she stood up stiffly.

From behind them Tristan said, "We should find him a proper coffin. There's an undertaker in town, right?"

Una nodded and addressed one of Oltran's men. "Have him ready his best oak coffin, and make sure they paint my brother's number on it. We'll remove the preservation charm once we reach the city."

The man bowed deeply, turned, and walked away.

Whether out of respect or disgust, the rest of them made arrangements quickly. Oltran and one of his remaining men would escort the family into town to tie off loose ends while the last was left to guard the carriage, wagon, and the cold, dead body. Dunstan felt sorry for him

* * *

As was usual for this hour, Hatha was buried in paperwork. Her husband and sons had no head for numbers, or so they claimed, and on most afternoons the _Slaughtered Prince_ was largely empty, so it was the perfect time to do the finances. Today, however, she'd had to turn away six people who came with poorly-veiled hopes of seeing proof of the rumoured new prince.

As the door opened a seventh time, she bit back a snappish remark. Looking up, however, she was greeted by a face that was familiar and, smiling, Hatha put down her pen. She deliberately stayed seated as the missing princess of Stormhold walked up to her desk.

"Shall I bow?" she asked lightly, tilting her head sideways. Una laughed.

"No," she said, and reached out to hug her friend. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I think I should have."

Hatha, standing up, raised both eyebrows and looked at Tristan, who'd said almost exactly the same thing. "Aye, he's your son all right." Now seeing more clearly the people who had followed her, Hatha addressed the man she'd never met before. "You must be Dunstan Thorn."

"I am, yes. Pleased to you meet you."

She returned the greeting and turned to Tristan. "I should warn you, there's been quite a few snoopers wanting the truth behind all these rumours," she said. He grimaced.

"Does everyone know?"

"Not everyone, no, but those who do will change that soon enough." She shrugged apologetically. "I take it you're leaving town now?"

Una nodded. "I just need to change first," she said, slightly lifting an expensive-looking, dark red dress that she'd just bought from among Danja's finest (if second-hand) garments. "Tristan will settle the bill. And Tristan, don't forget–"

"Mother," he said patiently, "I _know_."

Una smiled at him and followed Yvaine and Dunstan upstairs as Tristan took out his coin purse. The other two came back minutes later with the bags Tristan had brought from Wall and the things they'd bought in the market. The first thing they heard was Hatha's adamant, "No!"

They rounded the stair to find Hatha's arms folded tight against her chest, the coins to pay for their room on her desk, and Tristan's outstretched hand offering her something.

"No, I couldn't," she protested; "they're so expensive. You were wonderful guests, it was my _pleasure_–"

"Take it," Tristan gently insisted, putting a glass flower on the table. "It's a gift."

Hatha let out a sharp, irritable breath. Then she shook her head and smiled fondly. "All right," she said, picking up the charmed lily. "One should never refuse a gift, only return it. Thank you, Tristan. Wait right there."

A few minutes later she returned from the kitchen with a large basket of travelling food: bread, cold ham, pastries, wine, apples, berries of some sort and, to Yvaine's delight, the same chocolate cookies she'd so enjoyed before. "And don't you even _think_ of saying no," Hatha commanded.

Wisely, Tristan took the basket. Yvaine and Dunstan chuckled.

To the regret of all – save perhaps Captain Oltran, who was muttering worriedly about travel time to the next town – their goodbyes were forced to be short. Una was back no more than a few minutes when faces started to appear in the windows, and some bold character came in for a drink, watching them sideways the whole time. Their anonymity was obviously over.

As they stepped outside, it became clear why: eight of Oltran's men, the rest of the escort, had arrived and stood in stiff, straight rows. As Tristan came out he was formally saluted. Everyone watching then knew, beyond any doubt, that this was their new prince.

Formality had its advantages; the borrowed mares had been returned to Hatha's wide-eyed son and the black stallions were already gone, taken ahead to the carriage. A junior soldier – Yvaine's young admirer – scurried to take the heavy basket from her, and another carried Tristan's bags for him and Dunstan. As they began to walk, the men kept their path clear, preventing delays.

But as they went, Tristan felt every eye on him. People crowded the cobblestone street, just _staring_ at him. A hush was in the air; it felt absurdly like a funeral. Several people bowed, and every time they did everyone else would hurry to copy it. They whispered to each other, pointing. To his relief, no one laughed and said, "_This little BOY thinks he can be our king!"_ Some small children were cheering and one little lad wore a crown of rope. To him, Tristan smiled.

At first, Dunstan walked with him, offering his silent support while trying not to be distracted by the magical wares he'd only seen once, so long ago. Then Una gently nudged her son's back, urging him to walk ahead, and followed just one step behind herself. She smiled gently at the people who stared, nodding politely, at ease and happy.

They reached the gates. In all that time, no one spoke. The carriage stood just outside, horses harnessed to it. Just behind it was the wagon of luggage, and another with a handsome coffin strapped on top.

Twelve soldiers flanked them. Their uniforms were straight and neat, their swords polished and shining in the sun. One held open the carriage door; it had already been aired out. Another stood on the driver's platform. The army horses were ready, stable boys were holding the reins. All waited for the command. _His_ command.

Tristan hesitated, turning and looking around. He saw the crowd, watching intently, and he was humbled, overwhelmed.

Captain Oltran cleared his throat. "Your Highness?"

His family were sitting inside. Everyone was ready. Everyone waited for the new Prince of Stormhold.

Tristan climbed in. The whip snapped, and they were off.


	9. Chapter Nine

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

Author's notes: In earlier versions, Talmor was named "Tevien", but there was a character in my story _The Grand Vizier of Oz_ that it was much better suited to, hence the swap. I've also named the red-haired star we saw in the movie flashback ("Cirra"), and all the history discussed is my creation – it is expanded on in appendix two.

* * *

Act Three: The Road To Stormhold

* * *

_Chapter Nine_

By hoof and wheel, the journey to the palatial city on Mount Huon could be managed in less than five days. But, because Una wanted Tristan to have as much time as possible to learn about his country before being placed in charge of it, she instructed Captain Oltran to set a steady, easy pace that would extend their journey to no less than a week. The plan was to stop every night at an inn or town and make it known that they were there, spreading rumours about the missing princess and her son, which Una hoped might make it easier for the people to accept an heir they'd never met as their king.

On the first night they stayed at a small roadside inn which stood alone on the moors. It was humble and cosy and practically empty, run by an elderly couple who gibbered and gawked at the grand carriage and elegant passengers until even Tristan gave up trying to make them act naturally. He became very good and smiling and nodding while they bowed repeatedly, and as soon as he had the chance, disappeared into the quiet of his room.

Una and Dunstan remained at the table, talking with guards about security while the innkeepers scurried around, giving the other rooms an extra dusting whether they needed it or not. Yvaine waited a while, then excused herself. She had been distracted all through dinner, and climbed the stairs planning do something about it.

When they'd begun the ride that afternoon, Tristan had taken a few minutes to quietly think, mulling over the latest major change in his life, then turned to his mother and said, "I think I need those lessons now."

Una had smiled, nodded, and begun to teach. She sketched out the history of Stormhold, explaining what little myths told them about its earliest days, an ancient time when the fairy lands and mundane lands of Earth were almost a single world, when people all over Earth encountered the great magical beasts that now lived only in Stormhold. Yvaine, who knew most of that already, had paid little attention, but she did help Una explain the events surrounding the separation of the worlds.

Stormhold historians only knew that magical barriers had somehow been constructed, enclosing and protecting their land – which hadn't been named yet – from the destructive disbelief of Earth humans. There were legends of a fallen star who taught the art of magic from about the same time, and it was from her story that most common knowledge about stars was derived. Yvaine confirmed that yes, that star was her sister Selena. Selena's fall was accidental, and though she was in no real danger (back then, even witches and warlocks didn't know how valuable a heart was), she was trapped, for at the time there was no such thing as a Babylon candle. Selena had invented them, actually, creating the first candle for the sole purpose of returning home to the sky.

Yvaine confessed that she knew next to nothing of working magic; Selena, who was older, had spent much of her life learning the theory, and though no star could cast spells of any kind – despite being magical creatures, there were very few ways in which they could _wield_ that magic – she was able to teach gifted humans how to use the power their bodies could channel from the land. Those were the predecessors of modern witches and warlocks, and they helped her not only to make the candle, but to erect the walls and close the portals connecting Earth to the magical world. The humans living inside at the time were trapped, and began to build an entirely new society out of pieces of cultures from all over Earth.

Details about how the barriers worked, what had broken the wall near Wall, or exactly how the worlds had once interacted were questions that Yvaine could not answer. She had been wandering the far side of the galaxy for most of that time and though Selena had lived on Earth for centuries, she had told her sister extremely little about it.

There was, however, more to the story that Yvaine knew, but didn't tell. Talking about Selena's life on Earth had reminded her of another issue, one that she wasn't quite sure how to approach. Despite her best intentions, she had never gotten around to telling Tristan that he had the chance to be immortal.

It was not, after all, an easy conversation. She'd tried to start it now and then, but there had never been a good opportunity; they were always doing something else, out in too public a place or simply having too much fun to spoil it with such a serious discussion. It had never felt like the right time.

It still didn't.

Yvaine reached Tristan's door, lifted her hand to knock – then paused. Just what was she planning to say? _"Hello, Tristan. Did I mention that you're going to live forever? No? Sorry. Have you seen my cloak?"_

Ha.

She'd spent most of dinner trying to phrase it better, to plan her explanation, only to realise that she really didn't know much about it herself. She didn't know if he would age like a human or remain forever young like she did. She didn't know if he had to love her back, or if her feelings alone caused her heart to share its golden energy – and if that were the case, how could she possibly make herself _stop_ loving him if he refused it?

Yvaine bit her lip and dropped her hand. Tristan would want to know these things. _She_ wanted to know these things. It would hardly be fair to tell him now, when she couldn't even explain it properly – and besides, he'd spent most of the day preoccupied by his new responsibilities. Why add to that burden without giving him the means to decide?

Despite the logic, Yvaine couldn't quite make herself walk away, either. She hesitated, arguing with herself until Una suddenly appeared on the stairs and ended the dilemma.

The princess was smiling absently at the babbling innkeeper beside her, nodding politely while he repeatedly assured her that these were the best rooms they had, that he was very sorry about the poor layout of his establishment and how he did _so_ hope her soldiers would be comfortable in the remaining rooms.

Una caught Yvaine's glance and subtly rolled her eyes, and when their host finally stopped to take a breath, interrupted. "Captain Oltran is worried that his men won't be able to cover four rooms," she explained to Yvaine, "so we agreed that it's better to use two. You and I will share that one." Pointing to the next door down and gesturing for the star to follow, she walked past Yvaine while the innkeeper scuttled ahead of them both, hurrying to turn down the bed for these great ladies.

Yvaine glanced back at Tristan's door, but Dunstan was already approaching with his travel bag, and two soldiers followed. Moments later he'd knocked and entered, and Oltran's men were arranging their posts along the corridor.

She followed Una. This was definitely not the right time.

* * *

Dunstan walked into his room for the night to find Tristan sitting on the bed, boots kicked off and staring absently out the window. He turned as his father entered, and Dunstan was quietly amused to notice the look of disappointment on his face. It was quickly masked, though, by a smile and a greeting.

Putting down his bag of clothes, Dunstan briefly explained the security problem, repeating the captain's logic about the number of men and hours in their shifts, to which Tristan just nodded and said, "That makes sense."

He didn't ask for a reason why it was his father and not Yvaine who would be sharing his room, and Dunstan didn't offer one. Tristan thought he already knew, but he might have been surprised.

Though Dunstan had indeed been the one to suggest the sleeping arrangements, he didn't do so out of Victorian propriety – it would be ridiculous, not to mention hypocritical, to insist on keeping the couple apart now, after they'd already had several nights alone together. Honestly, it didn't bother him half as much as Tristan seemed to think, but they did have to consider the customs of Stormhold, of which Una had as yet said nothing. To be sure, there didn't _seem_ to be as much value placed on legitimacy, for Tristan commanded respect solely by virtue of his blue blood, but suddenly they were no longer minor villagers from a small town; Tristan was royalty, already under constant scrutiny, and Dunstan preferred not to push any limits around here just yet.

That was what he told himself when speaking up against Oltran's original assumption. That was his justification for the formalities.

The truth, of course, was that he also wasn't comfortable sharing a room with Una. As he'd told Tristan, he did love her, but it was in a very distant, long-ago sort of way. He wasn't eighteen anymore; he wasn't flighty or impulsive – he was a gentleman, and he'd slept the last nights in his house on spare cushions because he _wanted_ to. He wasn't ready to dive into a relationship the way they had last time.

Una, always calm, had never said anything. Whatever she thought or felt or wanted on those grounds was completely invisible to his eye. She simply agreed with his suggestion and sent the guards on their way, leading Yvaine into another room without saying a word to him. She'd smiled, though, and nodded pleasantly, so she wasn't hurt or upset...

Dunstan didn't know what to think. It had been a long time since he'd tried to understand women.

His thoughts were dragged back to the present when Tristan, who hadn't shared his father's room since he stopped being afraid of lightning, quirked a smile and asked, "Will you be reading me a bedtime story, too?"

He was answered by a snort of laughter. "Only if you go out to fetch our books," Dunstan retorted. "We kept _Grimm's Fairy Tales_, you know."

"Really?" asked Tristan, leaning back against the headboard. "Why that one? You said you'd sold most."

Dunstan shrugged. "Your mother wanted it," he answered. "She finds them fascinating, and thinks some might have somehow come from Stormhold."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "I can't quite see Little Red Riding Hood living around here. What made her think that?"

"That candle of yours," explained his father, digging through a bag. "I told her it reminded me of the rhyme, and she asked to hear it. I must have repeated every children's song in Wall for her, and then we started talking about fairy tales."

"Rhyme?" asked Tristan, "What rhy–?" And then he remembered; his eyes lit up. "_How many miles to Babylon_," he murmured, "_Three-score miles and ten. Can I get there by candle-light?_"

"_Yes, there and back again_," chimed in his father, smiling, "_If your heels are nimble and light..._"

"_You will get there by candle-light_," they finished. Tristan looked awed. "I never realised," he said, shaking his head; "I just... never thought about it." Looking up, he asked, "You think it comes from the real candles?"

"Well, Yvaine did say her sister was here some four thousand years ago, and that _is_ the time of Babylon." He shrugged, taking a seat on the bed. "It seems too convenient to be a coincidence. And if all those myths about dragons and hydras come from actual living creatures, why not magical candles?"

"It makes sense," agreed Tristan. "I wonder if all our old stories are about real people."

"I imagine time has changed or added to much of it," Dunstan said. "It's just..." He trailed off abruptly and shrugged.

Tristan tilted his head. "Just what, Father?"

Dunstan sighed, spreading his hands wide. "This is very strange for me, Tristan. You've spent a week here, but I... haven't. I've never seen people catch lightning or turn into animals. To me all this is abstract. Surreal."

"You've seen Yvaine."

"And she's a lovely girl, but if you hadn't told me, I'd think she was as human as we are." At Tristan's expression, he shook his head and assured, "I _believe_ you. Of course I believe you. It just isn't quite real yet."

"I haven't seen any dragons either, Father."

"Apparently they've almost died out; no one has seen them for centuries."

Tristan cracked a small grin. "I can't say I'm sorry. I really don't like the idea of dealing with one of _them_."

"Neither do I," Dunstan said, "but I doubt that's going to happen. Your mother says that if there are any left they'll be living in caves far from civilization. They're too big not to be noticed."

"You know more than I do," Tristan complained lightly. "How did that happen?"

His father shrugged. "Packing is dull work; we needed something to talk about. Something _other_," he added teasingly, "than how you used to run around the house without any clothes on."

Tristan's eyes widened in horror. "You didn't...?"

Dunstan grinned wickedly. "I did."

Mortified, Tristan buried his head in his hands. "I was _three_ years old!" he moaned. "I didn't know any better!"

With a fond chuckle, Dunstan ruffled his hair and said, "That's why you don't have to be ashamed. All children do things like that."

"Don't tell Yvaine," he begged, voice muffled by his hands.

"Not a word," promised Dunstan. "Your mother, on the other hand..." He grinned again. "Well, there's more I haven't told her... yet."

He was promptly hit by a pillow.

* * *

From above, in the peaceful stillness of night, Earth was always beautiful. Vast expanses of dark water sparkled in the moonlight, and across the land humans made their own twinkles; tiny specks of light were scattered over the world, shining in little golden bursts, almost an answer to the white glow of the stars.

For most sisters, it was a night like any other. Many of them were far from Earth, wandering the galaxy to see all the spectacular sights, occasionally meeting to sing and laugh together. Others stayed closer to their mother, gazing down at the quiet beauty below. The Moon herself was waning, winding down from the height of her glory and into the quiet lethargy of her monthly rest. She was never fully asleep, though, and even in her darkest phase was ready to catch and scold the younglings who stepped out of line.

There were some stars, however, who were not at peace. Little Celeste was still too young to understand why her favourite big sister wasn't coming home, and pouted loudly over the loss of her story-teller. Nomi, who strictly obeyed all their mother's orders, was sulking and complaining about how rude Yvaine had been to her, and Selena, an older, quieter star, was looking down from the heavens with sadness and no small amount of fear.

Selena was, as she had been for several nights now, intently focused on the tiny area of land where her sister had last been seen. At first she'd looked to the window where Yvaine and that human had been last time they talked, but on this night it was not only closed but dark, and it hadn't taken long to realise that the room was empty.

With only a vague idea of where they were going, Selena had spent hours patiently looking over various roads and towns in all directions, trying to remember just how far humans could travel in one day. It didn't help, of course, that she wouldn't see Yvaine unless the younger star just happened to be outside or near a window – and window facing south, at that – but she had to try. She _had_ to talk to her sister, to tell her more about what she was getting into before it was too late to pull her away.

Of course, if Yvaine wasn't willing to listen, there was nothing she could do about it.

As it was, Selena was lucky; she had narrowed down the options to half a dozen inns, and was checking back on the right one when Yvaine decided to look outside. She was leaning on a windowsill, wrapped in a dark green cloak and frowning, thinking. She did nothing to attract the attention of her sisters, and to Selena's greeting she coldly replied, "Isn't Mother going to be angry that _another_ of her good little girls is breaking the rules?"

"_Probably_," Selena agreed, trying to start this off diplomatically, "_but that's not important right now. There are things I have to tell you._"

"I agree," Yvaine said acidly. "Since you seem to be the expert, let's start with everything you know about our hearts, and what will happen to Tristan now that he has mine."

Selena was startled. She and Yvaine had never been the closest of friends, but they knew each other well enough that Selena could see past the other girl's hard mask and down to the real reason. "_You haven't told him yet, have you?_"

Yvaine merely glared. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to admit it, Selena sighed and began her answer. "_You know I fell in love with a human while down there. His name was Talmor–"_ from below, Yvaine noticed her shine briefly dim "–_and he was the third son of a farming family. His sister had magical talents; she was one of my best pupils. Tal came to my home to look after her while I taught them what I could. A few months later..._"

"You fell in love," Yvaine supplied, her voice softening.

"_We were married_," Selena admitted. "_It was a silly, impulsive thing to do, but I did love him, Yvaine. We were happy – for years, we were happy._"

"What happened?"

"_We kept on living_," she said simply, "_and everyone else started to die. We didn't realise what was happening until his brothers suddenly had grandchildren and Tal hadn't aged a day. He knew what I was, and we'd accepted that I'd outlive him, but he never thought he'd watch everyone he loved grow old and pass on. It changed him. You must understand, Yvaine, he wasn't a bad person. He loved his brothers as much as he loved me, and when they were gone... I just wasn't enough._"

Yvaine was quiet, absorbing this. She hadn't realised Selena had been quite so hurt; in the thousands of years since her return, she'd never once mentioned a husband. Though it was sure to bring up more painful memories, Yvaine had to ask, "Then how did he die? If you loved each other and you shared your heart with him..."

"_He stopped loving me_," said Selena, and suddenly her voice was blank, void of emotion. "_He closed his heart to me, and if love isn't shared, youth will not last long. He grew old. He left me._" She paused a moment and added, "_If things had happened differently, I'm sure he would have killed himself._"

Yvaine flinched, unwillingly imagining – just as Selena hoped she might – a Tristan so twisted by age and grief that he, too, would see no other way to escape her.

"It's not the same for us," Yvaine said at last. "I'm going to tell Tristan about it _now_. He'll know what's going to happen. He'll be ready."

"_You really think it's that simple_?" scoffed her sister. "_You really think he can change what he is? He's human, Yvaine; he was born to be mortal. Nothing you say or do is going to keep him the way he is now. He's __not__ going to stay happily in love with you forever._"

"One failed marriage doesn't prove anything. You don't _know_ him, Selena."

"_I know that humans can't be trusted. It's not just Talmor. Do you remember Lilith?_"

Yvaine paused, taken by surprise. Lilith, she knew, was one of their many sisters, but not one she'd met recently. Millions of years younger than either Yvaine or Selena, she would barely be out of their mother's care. "Faintly," she answered. "I don't think I ever talked to her."

"_You never will_," Selena said. "_She's dead_."

_That_ shocked her. There were very few things in the galaxy that could actually kill a star, and thanks to their mother's instruction, the sisters knew better than to be caught in them. The few deaths that had occurred were mourned intensely, and Yvaine could count them on her fingers. The most recent was Cirra, a red-haired girl who was murdered by witches after she accidentally fell to Earth four hundred years earlier. All the others had been lost to black holes or sudden cosmic explosions – Lilith was not among them.

"_How_?" asked Yvaine. "Why wasn't I told?"

Selena replied, "_Mother and I decided that no one should know_–"

"Why _NOT_?"

"_Because we were afraid it might happen again!_" Selena snapped. "_Don't presume you know better than us, Yvaine – you weren't there! You don't realise what was at stake!_"

"So tell me," she demanded. "Now."

Selena sighed, forcing herself to be calm. "_After Talmor died I had no reason to stay on Earth. My pupils helped me create a magical candle and I came straight home. I told Mother everything, and she wanted to make absolutely sure that none of you would go through what I did. We considered letting everyone know all about it, but Lilith overheard what I told Mother and decided it would be __fun__ to live on Earth for a while_."

Yvaine's brow furrowed. "She fell?"

"_Deliberately. Mother was furious, but Lilith didn't listen. She was very young, Yvaine – __very__ young. She only heard what she wanted to hear, and ignored everything I'd said about the pain and the heartache. She had no idea what kind of danger she was getting into._"

Starting to see where this was going, Yvaine said, "Someone went after her heart, didn't they?"

"_Not just 'someone'. Witches. The same three witches who killed Cirra and almost killed you. They were her daughters._"

Yvaine blinked – again. She stared, mouth hanging open in surprise. "...What?" she asked. "Her daughters? _Lilith's_ daughters?"

"_Yes. They were born mortal, of course, but extremely talented. They learned everything they could about magic from Lilith – everything I taught her_," Selena added bitterly. "_I was trying to make her come home. She wouldn't listen_."

"She had a family," Yvaine defended, but it was half-hearted in the wake of such news. She had never known a star to have children – in all of history, it had never happened. For a brief moment she glowed, delighted. She _could_ have children! It _was_ possible!

"_Not then she didn't_," dismissed Selena, who either missed or ignored the sparkle. "_They were born later, to three different fathers. Lilith never loved any of them, but she adored the children. She loved them enough to keep them alive for five hundred years – but then they changed, too. Just like Talmor._"

"How so?"

"_They stopped loving her. Maybe they were never capable of it in the first place, I don't know. All I know is that Lilith started asking about why they aged, looking for a way to save them, and one day she went inside and never came out again._"

Pausing a moment, making sure her words were absolutely clear, Selena said, "_They murdered their own mother._"

Yvaine said nothing, burying her face in her hands and _wept_, grieving for the sister she'd never known. Such a thing was utterly alien to the stars, for although they knew humans were capable of anything, their stellar kinship was indescribably precious; they often argued, but they never dreamed of harming each other. It just _didn't happen_. The magnitude of such a crime was beyond reckoning – the witches had killed their mother and captured two of her sisters merely to steal the youth they would have had anyway if only they'd loved her back.

Belatedly, Yvaine realised she had killed her own niece. The thought made her sick to her stomach.

The silence went on for long minutes as Yvaine took it all in. She cried silently, smearing occasional tears off her cheeks, and slowly her grief subsided into cool anger. "You should have told us," she said at last. "Lilith deserves better than to be forgotten."

"_We were afraid someone would try to avenge her death_," Selena said reasonably. "_Those witches were extremely powerful. We had no idea that any star could do what you did._"

"You saw that?"

"_Your shine burst out of every crack in that building_," Selena said fondly. "_It was hard not to_."

Yvaine nodded, already dismissing the matter; her mind was on more important things. Again there was a silence, which lasted until Selena could no longer bear it.

"_You do understand now, don't you?_" she pleaded. "_You see why you have to come home right __now_."

All the grief in the universe could not cool Yvaine's temper, and her head snapped up. Her fierce independence asserted itself. "No," she said firmly. "No, I don't. It's a horrible story and I wish I'd known sooner, but it doesn't change anything. I'm going to tell Tristan everything and it _will_ be all right."

"_You __fool__, Yvaine!_" cried Selena. "_Don't you understand? Humans are all the same. No matter what happens, you can't trust them!_"

"Tristan loves me!"

"_Of course he does. Humans are quick to love. I'm sure he'll hear your entire story and be just as happy as you hope for. But what will happen then, Yvaine? What happens in fifty years, or a hundred? In a thousand years, will he still love you?_"

"Yes."

"_You're wrong_," declared her sister. "_It won't last. Someday he __is__ going to break your heart. It doesn't matter what he says now._"

"You can't be sure of that," Yvaine argued, but her voice betrayed a tremor.

"_Neither can you_."

* * *

Minutes later, Yvaine stormed down the corridor, past the guards, and back into the room where Una slept on unaware. She forced herself to be quiet, but her mind was spinning with fury and fear, and a fierce determination to tell Tristan right away. Selena was _wrong_ and it _was_ going to be all right. It would be. It _had_ to be.

With sharp, jerky movements that nearly woke her companion, Yvaine crawled back into bed.

She did not sleep.


	10. Chapter Ten

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Ten_

Tristan dreamed.

He was back in Wall, both standing nervously in the middle of the village square and watching, detached, from afar. It was daytime, but somehow also the town meeting from several nights ago. The crowd was huge, made up of far more people than actually lived in Wall, a mass of angry faces. Frank Monday, eight years old, was sitting crying on the ground by his feet, and Victoria, equally young, was showing off a massive ruby ring. Captain Oltran was saluting Mr Banks, who was shaking a formal-looking letter at a fully-grown Humphrey. Hatha stood beside them, sighing and shaking her head as Arden snatched the letter, now a crown, and sneered, "Mine! Don't you know who I AM?"

Una was there, in her new red dress and a crown, arms folded as she surveyed the shouting crowd. She refused to talk to them. "It's your job now, Tristan."

His father added, "But only if you earn their respect."

Tristan tried to speak, tried to tell them all that he _did_ have blue blood, but found himself mute. He was dressed in his old brown clothes, hair cut short again. The crowd closed in, some talking him down, others begging for help.

Their faces blurred, turning into the strangers from Market Town, but they were still shouting. Septimus was there, with Tristan's sword stuck right through his chest. He frowned. "You can't be king. You're pathetic. You don't even have a tattoo." He showed hand, on which was stamped a large green "K".

Then they weren't in Wall anymore; they were on the parapets of a grey stone castle, just like the ones in English fairytales. The crowd was on all sides, on the ground and in the windows. Primus was there, throat cut and dripping blue. Very serious, he looked Tristan in the eye and sang, "_How many miles to Babylon_?"

A lit black candle was thrust before his eyes. Yvaine held it out to him. "_You can get there by candlelight._"

"The first was made by Red Riding Hood," Frank, now and adult, lectured pleasantly. "She's a witch. She built the wall."

Mr Edwards, the guard, waved his hands frantically. "Seal it! Seal the wall! No more candles!"

The crowd closed in.

"You're a shopboy, Tristan," said Victoria, wearing Una's dress.

"You were never _meant_ to be a shopboy," Yvaine scolded, folding her arms at him.

"Are you happy?" asked Dunstan.

"Sir!" cried Oltran, pushing through the crowd. "What do we do with the shopboys, sir?"

"Toss 'em overboard!" shouted a pirate.

The faces blurred and swirled, engulfing him. He was drowned by their voices. Bodies pressed close on all sides, cutting off his air–

"It's your _job_."

"You're pathetic."

"Are you happy?"

"You should _help_ me..."

–and they turned into a massive gold crown, pinning his arms, squeezing him down, there was no air no air no _air_...

"Shopboy."

"Pathetic."

"–your _job_!"

"_Help_ me!"

"...happy?"

"Tristan!"

"Tristan!"

"TRISTAN!"

He woke.

It was morning, at the inn on the moors, and the room was peaceful and still. Tristan looked around, eyes darting back and forth across the ceiling as he remembered where and when he was. He breathed hard, in slow gasps, heartbeat thumping in his ears as his hands clenched the blankets. Sweat dampened his hair and palms, and he pushed long strands from his face, slowly sitting up.

The dream had been vivid, powerful. He rarely dreamed like that.

For long minutes he sat alone in the empty room, sorting out his thoughts. He wasn't seriously reconsidering his decision to be king, but in some ways it seemed crazy not to. He knew it had been only a dream, but the feelings were real – fear still had a tight grasp on his chest, squeezing his insides and freezing him with panic. Deep, steady breaths did nothing to loosen the knot, and though his pulse slowed to normal, the feelings did not go away.

Eventually he shook his head, hard, and forced himself to get up. His father was already gone, and judging by the sunlight it was rather late; they'd be expecting him. He dressed mechanically, washing his face with icy water and then, when that failed to properly wake him, scrubbed his arms and neck as well, shivering.

That didn't help either. He dried off and walked away.

His family was eating breakfast, not exactly waiting but pleased that they didn't need to fetch him. There was some brief teasing from all of them about sleeping in, to which Tristan smiled dimly but did not retort. He ate without tasting, drifting in and out of the conversation, staring off into space.

Had he been more awake, he would have noticed Yvaine's constant, uneasy glances at him, or his mother's slight frown of worry every time she saw this. He might have even noticed the quiet fretting of the innkeepers or Oltran's impatience to get going. As it was, he was completely preoccupied by the dream.

By the time they climbed into the carriage, however, Tristan had shaken off his lingering bad feelings and was making a great effort to forget them. As he talked to his family, it became easier, and after a while everything was fine again.

For him, at least. For Yvaine, his alertness had come much too late. When he finally realised that she was being oddly quiet and withdrawn, it was when the party had stopped to eat and rest at around midday. They were sitting at the side of a small hill on the moor, sharing Hatha's basket of food and stretching their legs. He asked if anything was wrong.

Yvaine glanced around at the soldiers, talking amongst themselves, and to Una and Dunstan, who were sitting well within earshot. She forced a smile. "I'm fine."

As they drove, Una continued her history lessons. She was, much to Yvaine's discomfort, describing the thousand-year reign of the first true rulers of their as-yet-unnamed magical land – the Lilim witches.

To make a long and complex story short, the witches rose to power by inviting all magically talented people to their home in Carnadine – no one was sure if it had once been a city; only the manor in the canyon was left – and, after forcing each apprentice to take a magically binding oath, taught them how to use their powers. In this way they formed the sister- and brotherhoods of witches and warlocks, all of whom were their servants. By controlling the practice of magic, which had become (largely by their own doing) essential to the lives of the people, they were effectively in command of the entire nation. This was formalised some time later, and the sisters ruled for a millennium as the rightful queens.

They were not, Una stressed, tyrants. At least not at first. The people they ruled did in fact lead better lives thanks to them; controlled use of magic made their work easier and sickness rarer. There were no wars to fight because, thanks to Selena's barriers, there were no enemies to threaten them. Being led by the world's most powerful witches must have seemed natural to those people; some ancient writings, still surviving in Stormhold's deepest archives, referred to them as goddesses, for they were all exceptionally wise, beautiful and immortal.

Yvaine flinched and turned away.

Their rule ended, however, when their youth finally began to slip away. "Or so we believe," cautioned Una. "Most of what we really know comes from the songs of victory and folktales that were written afterwards, and knowing my family, a lot of it was glorified." Nonetheless, the basic facts seemed to have evidence enough: the oldest and longest ballad in Stormhold literature described three witch-queens who tried to steal the youth of children, which Una tactfully reinterpreted as seeking a way to stay young by experimenting with potions and spells – quite likely with human test subjects, for the epic poem spent nearly a hundred lines describing the horror of friends and family who went missing or turned up mutilated.

Of course, the people did not meekly submit to this. Despite the increasingly cruel force used by the sisters to control their subjects, a rebellion was organised under the leadership of a man named Galdon, who eventually overthrew the Lilim and was crowned Primus, the First King of the land he named _Stormhold_. Were the legend to be believed, he was nine feet tall and wore boots of pure gold, but even if not, he had clearly been a very good leader. By cunning, not force, he smuggled prisoners out of Carnadine, destroyed their "foul brews" – probably the experiments – and freed the witches and warlocks who were being worked to death to find "the Elixir of Life".

"My father liked to think Galdon destroyed the Lilim, too," said Una, "but obviously he didn't. The ballad never actually says what happened to them, so a lot of people assumed they were killed in the process. From what we know now," she nodded to Tristan and Yvaine, who was still being very quiet, "I'm guessing that they locked themselves away – for shame, maybe – and just kept waiting for a way to reclaim their youth and power."

Tristan's brow furrowed. "Then why didn't they try to take over four hundred years ago? We know that they–" he paused, looking at Yvaine, and continued more gently, "that they were young again then."

"You can say it, Tristan," Yvaine said tiredly. "They killed my sister and ate her heart. But it didn't last very long." She looked up, across the three faces with her in the carriage, and suddenly decided to tell them. Even if she couldn't bring herself to confess Tristan's chance at immortality, she could talk about Lilith. She had to tell _someone_; the grief was gnawing at her, almost equal to the guilt and fear she felt whenever she looked at Tristan.

"It didn't last because Cirra didn't love them. Their first youth lasted a thousand years because the heart that they ate... the one that made them immortal in the first place..." It was absurdly hard for her to say it. "It was their mother's heart. Lilith, my sister."

Three pairs of eyes widened and they glanced quickly at each other as they realised the significance of this. Yvaine pressed on, voice curiously blank as she gazed out the window again.

"She loved them. Love is what made them young again, not magic, but they stole it. They took what should have been given freely. They murdered her for it. They murdered both of them."

For a long moment there was silence in the carriage. From outside they could hear hoof beats and the snapping whip. Soldiers were talking, soft murmurs in the background. Yvaine looked from Tristan to Dunstan to Una, face blank as she watched them move from shock to outrage to sympathy. She said nothing.

Then Tristan gently put an arm around her, drawing her away from the cold window, and she slumped against his chest. She didn't cry, but Tristan shushed her nonetheless, tucking her into the curve of his neck and murmuring quiet words as she trembled, ever so slightly, in his arms. He glanced at his parents, who looked stricken.

"Oh, Yvaine..." Una reached for her hand, moving off her seat to kneel awkwardly in the foot space between the benches. She touched the girl's cheek, wiping away the only tear that had managed escape. "Why didn't you say something sooner? If I'd known, I wouldn't have..."

"We can't avoid the subject," she replied, accepting the handkerchief Dunstan offered and nodding thanks for it. "I didn't know myself until last night. I talked to Selena," she explained, "and she told me all these things that our mother didn't want us to know. They were afraid it would happen again." She gave a hollow laugh. "It happened anyway."

There was nothing the others could say to help her, no way to make it all better, so they repeated how sorry and sympathetic they were, murmuring genuine but largely useless consolation. Yvaine appreciated it, but had no wish to be an object of pity in their eyes so she started a new conversation entirely. It lasted for the rest of the ride, carefully avoiding the delicate issues, and if Yvaine listened more than she talked, no one blamed her.

* * *

For Yvaine's sake, it would have been nice if Tristan had realised there was more bothering her than the needless death of her sister. In his defence, the story of Lilith was quite enough to upset anyone, and as he had no idea of what else Selena had said, it was perfectly reasonable to attribute all of Yvaine's melancholy to grief.

That, of course, didn't make it any easier for her to bring up the subject.

It was evening, at yet another isolated inn. This one was larger than the last and had a few other guests, all of whom deferred to the royal family and generally made themselves scarce. Yvaine ignored them. She had gone through the rest of the carriage ride and all of dinner without a single chance to talk to Tristan alone, and was fast becoming desperate. All she'd been able to think about was Selena's horrible decree – "_He's __not__ going to stay happily in love with you forever_" – and it was driving her mad. She had to talk to him, now. She didn't think she could last another day like this.

When dinner was finished and the plates cleared away, Yvaine took sharp hold of Tristan's sleeve, tugging him back before he could stand up. He turned to her, surprised, and she said, "We have to talk. Now."

To his credit, Tristan blinked only once before nodding and taking her hand. They stood up together and to Dunstan, who had heard her words, he said, "Excuse us, Father."

Dunstan just nodded.

If anyone found it awkward that Yvaine led him straight to one of the bedrooms, she didn't notice or care. She strode right in, pulling Tristan by the hand, then stopped dead as she found that this goal, at least, had been accomplished. She suddenly lost her determination and hesitated, absently rubbing her elbow as she turned back to look at him.

Tristan, closing the door, now knew that something was very wrong. Yvaine was rarely nervous, never shy, but she looked at him now with blue eyes that were undeniably afraid. She was fidgeting, biting her lip. Something was very, _very_ wrong.

"Yvaine?" he said. She looked up and tried to smile. He reached out to her, an open gesture of comfort, and said, "Come here."

It was like she'd been waiting for permission. With one step she'd reached him, and he hugged her tight. After a moment he led them both to sit on the bed and, holding her hands, Tristan looked straight into her eyes. "What's wrong?"

Yvaine swallowed, hard, and spoke with a slight tremor, but firmly resolved to say it all. "Do you remember, when we were travelling, you said you thought immortality would be lonely."

His brow furrowed. Of all things he might have expected, that was not it. "Yes, I do."

"Well, it's not," she said frankly. "I was never lonely up there. I always had my sisters, and Mother. I could go off on my own if I wanted, but I could always find them back."

Thinking he understood, Tristan nodded and said, "But now you can't. Your family won't talk to you."

She shook her head. "That's not it."

There was a long pause. Tristan waited patiently.

"You said you might like immortality, didn't you? If you had someone to share it with?"

This was making no sense at all, but still he nodded. "I should have said it differently," he apologised. "I didn't realise how it would sound to you."

"But did you mean it?"

"I meant it," he said, fingers sliding over the silver metal of her ring. "I don't want to live my life without you."

"But living forever, that doesn't... repulse you?"

"I never really thought about it," he replied. Firmly, he assured, "Yvaine, I'm _not_ going to steal your heart."

He didn't _get it_! The frustration was maddening – she almost laughed.

"You already have," she said lightly, then shook her head. "I know. I'm not afraid that you'll kill me like the Lilim did; I know you better than that." She paused, her gaze drifting over the floorboards. "But Selena doesn't. There's more that she told me, Tristan. A lot more. She was trying to scare me into coming home."

Tristan was quiet for a moment. "Did she manage?"

Yvaine's eyes snapped back to him. "No."

Letting out a breath, he relaxed a bit. "So what did she say?"

"She..." Yvaine fiercely bit down on her reluctance, forcing herself to say it all, now, before she lost her nerve entirely. "She said that while she lived down here, she married a human man, and as long as they loved each other he didn't age and didn't die."

Tristan's eyes widened. His lips were slightly parted. "And... we...?"

"If you love me, and if you want to, you can live forever."

...Blink.

He stared at her, mouth open, and Yvaine's heart froze in panic.

Blink.

His jaw moved soundlessly, trying to form words.

Blink.

One lip twitched, one corner quirked up, and it changed his expression entirely. He was delighted. Stunned, overwhelmed, and incredulous, but delighted. A smile broke out, filling his entire face, and the tension drained from Yvaine like water. "You... you'd like that?"

Tristan stared again, speechless, amazed that she would even ask. He kept searching, trying to find words. He gave up. He kissed her.

As they clung together, arms wrapped tightly and fingers running through hair, something wet touched his nose. She was actually crying.

Breaking apart, Tristan kept his hands lightly on either side of her face, smearing away the tears as she laughed and cried all at once, hands covering her mouth. He gave a laugh, incredulous. "You seriously thought I wouldn't _want_ this?"

"Selena's husband didn't. He wanted to die, like his brothers; he broke her heart and she's sure you'll do the same to me."

He shook his head. "I love you," said Tristan. "I'll always love you. Living with you forever... that's _wonderful_."

"But what if you change your mind?" she pressed. "What if someday, centuries from now–"

"That's not going to happen," he swore. "It's not. I love you, Yvaine, and nothing's going to change that. Ever." Still smiling, he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. "Trust me, your sister's wrong. I love you. I'll always love you. This is _perfect_."

And she nodded, smiling helplessly, feeling her heart swell and the tears rise again. "I trust you, Tristan," she said. "I trust you."


	11. Chapter Eleven

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Eleven_

Dunstan Thorn was not the type to pry. Like everyone else, he had his own little secrets, inner thoughts and feelings that were nobody else's business, and with that came a deep respect for the privacy of others. It was not in his nature to gossip or speculate, and for most of his life, the only person whose troubles he really cared about was always willing to confide in him. Tristan had always been very close to his father, never shutting him out of anything important, and in return Dunstan had never felt the need to ask difficult questions.

Unfortunately, it seemed that this openness was ending along with Tristan's childhood.

He'd known Yvaine was upset, of course. It was hard thing to miss, particularly since they'd been sitting directly opposite one other at the dinner table. Had it been Tristan or even Una, Dunstan would have quietly asked if everything was all right, but Yvaine was something of a mystery to him. He liked the girl, certainly, and he looked forward to getting to know her better, but for now they had only just met, and whatever was wrong clearly had nothing to do with him.

So he'd said nothing when Yvaine demanded a private word with Tristan. He'd thought little of it, actually, save for remembering with fond amusement all the little dramas he'd seen young couples in Wall go through. He idly wondered what she'd been fretting about, but gave it no serious thought at all.

But then, quite some time later, the pair had emerged looking absolutely delighted. Tristan had a wide, silly grin spread across his face, and seemed fit to burst with joy. Yvaine, too, was smiling foolishly, gleefully; a stark contrast to her earlier tension. Dunstan still might not have worried about it, save that when the pair returned, they didn't say a word to explain themselves. They just sat together, constantly glancing at each other, sharing secret smiles, and Yvaine, he realised, was _glowing_.

It was a soft, subtle light, but enough to briefly distract Dunstan from his increasingly troubled thoughts. At first he thought it was the fire, but Yvaine's light was whiter, less flickery. Her hair shimmered, her skin was brighter, and the silverware near her hands gently sparkled.

Dunstan blinked. He knew what she was, of course, and he'd believed them when they said it, but actually _seeing_ her _glow_ was... surprising.

But stars, they'd said, couldn't shine when sad or afraid. Whatever had been said behind that door was enough to make Yvaine happier than she'd been in all the time he'd known her.

He shared a glance with Una; she'd seen it, too. Unnoticed by their son and his fiancée, the two shared an entire conversation by way of raised eyebrows and subtle changes in expression. They were both thinking the same thing, and neither was entirely sure what to do.

A month ago, Tristan would have told him, and there would have been no need to _do_ anything.

As before, father and son would be sharing a room, so after plans and been discussed and they bid the ladies goodnight, Dunstan found himself in the awkward position of asking about something that, until Tristan chose to tell him, was really none of his business.

But these weren't normal circumstances. Tristan was royalty, and Stormhold had customs they needed to respect. If there was going to be a problem, better that it be sorted out now.

Steeling himself, Dunstan glanced at his son, who was unbuckling his belt and boots, still wearing that wide, foolish smile. He seemed completely unaware of it. Dunstan searched through his travel bag, looking for the washcloth that was very obviously poking out from under his spare vest, and casually mentioned, "I thought I saw Yvaine glow earlier."

Tristan looked up, eyes dancing merrily as he nodded. "She's happy," he explained.

"That's good," Dunstan said pleasantly. "Do stars usually glow all the time, or only when something special happens?" He hoped that wasn't too obvious.

Apparently not, for Tristan just shrugged and said, "I'm not sure. They shine all the time in the sky, I think, but sometimes Yvaine doesn't even when there's nothing wrong."

"So there _isn't_ anything wrong?" he asked carefully. "Nothing... that I should know about?"

Tristan paused, halfway through unbuttoning his vest, and frowned as he considered the question. He thought about his nightmare and the enormity of what he was doing, about his mother and her plans, about Yvaine and the witches and even his dead uncles. Slowly, he shook his head. "...No," he said. "No, I don't think so." His eyes slid sideways and he tilted his head. "Is something wrong, Father?"

Dunstan hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak, then let out his breath and closed it, shrugging. "...No," he said. "I don't suppose there is."

* * *

Una, in the next room, was a little more direct. "Yvaine, are you with child?"

The star froze, hands suspended over the blanket she'd been arranging. Slowly, she straightened up, dropping a pillow, and turned to Una with a delighted smile spreading across her lips. Her glow brightened immediately, and her hands moved to her belly almost without thought, fingers curling slightly across her belt. "I – I don't... You think so?"

It was so obviously not the case that Una winced, and it was difficult for her to say, "No. ...I was just curious."

Yvaine deflated, dimming, and sat down on the bed with a far-away look in her eyes. After a moment she looked to Una and asked, "What's it like? Having a baby, I mean."

Una gave a bark of dry laughter. "Painful," she said. Then, a warm, nostalgic smile touched one cheek and spread slowly to the other. Gently, she amended, "Wonderful."

Crossing the room, Una reached for Yvaine's hand and took a seat beside her, smiling at the girl who would be her daughter. "You want to have children?"

The star bit her lower lip, grinning. Her eyes were bright. "Until yesterday, I wasn't sure we could," she admitted. "I do. I really, really do. I can't explain it. I just keep imagining..." Her arms folded into a cradle-like shape, and she gazed absently toward one elbow. She looked up. "Does everyone feel like this?"

Una raised an amused eyebrow at Yvaine's hands, now sliding to the natural curve of her belly, then quirked a smile and replied, "Men might not feel _quite_ the same way."

It was meant as a joke, but Yvaine's smile wavered. "Do you think Tristan would... want children?"

Glancing away, Una took hold of Yvaine's hand again and squeezed. Her voice was curiously empty, eyes a little far away. "I don't know. It's not the sort of thing we talk about."

Yvaine's brow furrowed and she tightened her grasp in return. Una looked back at her and gave a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Well," she said briskly, "I would love to have grandchildren, but I do hope you're planning to wait for a while."

"I don't think I'm ready yet, anyway," assured Yvaine. "I've barely gotten used to living down here. It's so... so much more _physical_."

Una raised her eyebrows and her lips pressed together, a smile fighting to escape them. Yvaine blushed again. "That's _not_ what I meant."

"Of course not," the princess said merrily. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."

"Before I fell," Yvaine pressed on hurriedly, avoiding the question, "I never realised just how hot or cold or tired you could be. It's not like there's no weather up there – the stellar winds are amazing, and dangerous, too – but still, it's..." she paused, trying to describe it. "It's like there's _less_ of us."

Una shook her head, confused, and Yvaine gestured sharply, absently, looking for better words. "When I landed, I felt heavy and slow and..." _and a lot of pain_, she thought, hand idly brushing her leg. "I could feel the blood in my skin and my breath was so... it was like I needed to work harder to breathe. Until I got used to it, at least. We do have bodies, but they're less... _substantial_." Her fingers clicked in triumph. "We sort of float around, and our light shines more easily than through this," she added, poking the flesh of her hand.

Una was fascinated. "So when you fell, your body actually _changed_ into something more solid?"

"I really don't know," Yvaine admitted. "It must have – I've never felt the cold like that before – but how or why..." She shrugged. Then her expression changed, her brow furrowed a moment, and suddenly she stood. "My cloak; I left it downstairs."

"We can send a guard," Una replied, a little surprised by the abrupt change in topic. Yvaine rolled her eyes, smiling sardonically, and reached for the doorknob.

"I _can_ walk," she said, and if there was a trace of annoyance in her voice, Una politely ignored it. Yvaine left.

The princess waited a moment, wondering if she should knock on the other door while she still had the chance, but then Dunstan – who must have heard Yvaine leave – conveniently appeared in her doorway. He didn't come in, but waited at the threshold, eyebrows knitted together in concern and clearly hoping that she'd had better luck. Una smiled and shook her head.

Dunstan's shoulders slumped and he let out his breath. "Good," he said softly. "This would have been a very bad time."

Una, now standing and walking toward him, could only shrug. "He didn't say anything?"

"He didn't realise what I was asking."

Both parents shared a grin at this, but it was cut short when Yvaine's angry voice reached them all the way from the common room. "We're _inside_," she snapped at someone. "Inside a place _you_ secured. It's safe. We're safe. _I'm_ _safe_. I have two legs, I can walk down the stairs without an escort."

"Be that as it may, m'lady, prudence dictates that–"

"That you follow me around for the rest of my _life_?" barked the girl, her thumping footsteps halting a moment as she spun around to face the soldier.

"Well... well, _no_–"

"Good. Go _away_."

Yvaine reached the top of the stairs, green cloak in hand and stomping blindly past the other soldiers, ignoring them all. Una nodded a polite thanks to the man who tentatively followed, and Dunstan took the chance to make a discreet exit.

Back in their room, Yvaine flung her cloak down with far more force than necessary. It hit the floor, and Una, who had closed the door behind them, bent down to pick it up. Seeing this, Yvaine sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "Here, let me..."

"It's all right," said Una. She offered a little smile. "I have two hands, you know."

Yvaine returned it, but sighed and asked, "Will it always be like this?"

"Completely lacking any privacy?" asked Una. "No, it won't. We're travelling the countryside with a minimal escort, and that makes the captain nervous. He's responsible for protecting the entire royal family all on his own and I'm sure he has the men on a short leash. Don't be too hard on them, Yvaine, they're trying. In the palace it will be different; soldiers secure the entire building and no one can reach the royal tower without wings – there won't be anyone following you there."

Yvaine nodded, relaxing a bit, and sat to take off her boots. "Is there actually any danger?" she asked.

Una shrugged. "Nothing obvious," she said. "I doubt the men will need to protect us from anything more than petty thieves, and they can be easily discouraged just by seeing so many soldiers. It's always possible, though; there have been times when the people attacked travelling princes unexpectedly – usually for some political reason, or taxes. ...I very much doubt it, Yvaine," she finally answered, "but there's no harm in caution."

Tossing her shoes at the wall, Yvaine just sighed and accepted it.

* * *

The next day, Una's history lessons changed a bit. As she described the reign of Galdon's descendants, she went into more detail about politics and traditions that still existed and would affect them personally. Galdon's family were good kings, particularly in the beginning, and Dunstan noticed that Una seemed truly proud to talk about her first ancestors; she laughed without reservation at some of the more interesting stories.

"At first, you see, the king's children had normal names, and only took a number title when they were crowned," Una explained. "So the son of First King Primus was crowned 'Secundus, the Second King', and his son was re-named Tertius, and so on. And it worked, for a while, but when you take such a long name as Tridecaseptimus–"

Tristan choked back a laugh, and grins broke out on Yvaine and Dunstan's faces. "You must be joking," he said.

"I'm not," said Una, smiling with them. "He was the thirty-seventh king, and he decided that this particular tradition had gone on for _quite_ long enough. Personally," she grinned, "I think he was tired of everyone stumbling over his name."

"I can hardly blame him," Dunstan said lightly.

"Neither can I. But he didn't want to ignore tradition entirely, so he named his sons Primus, Secundus, Tertius and so on, and when he chose a successor–" She paused, then went off on a tangent to clarify: "Back then, the king would name his heir by judging which of them would be the best ruler for Stormhold. It wasn't until later that it became a–" _bloody, vicious _"–competition."

"So the eldest son doesn't have first right to the throne?" asked Tristan. Una's brow wrinkled and she shook her head.

"What guarantee is there that the eldest will be the best leader?" she replied. "No, that was never our way. Is that what they do in England?"

Tristan nodded.

"Interesting," said his mother. She considered this a moment, glancing between him and Yvaine, then turned back to her story. "In any case, Tridecaseptimus named his fourth son heir, so he was crowned Quartus the Second. He, in turn, chose his ninth son, who became Nonus the Second, and so on. It makes it harder to remember the sequence, historically, but it's so much easier to say. Otherwise my father would have been Octodecaprimus, rather than Decadus the Fifth."

Dunstan chuckled, glancing at his son. Tristan had a pained look on his face. "_Good_," he said. "I _really_ wouldn't want to be called Octodeca...duo? Duos?" He paused, searching for the word. "What would it be?"

"Secundus," said Dunstan. "Octodecasecundus; eighty-second. They're ordinals, not cardinals." He tilted his head and chuckled. "You don't remember your Latin lessons at all, do you?"

Tristan squirmed a little, but shook his head and admitted, "No, I never paid much attention. You know I hated them."

"Oh, I know," said Dunstan. "You said it was pointless because you would 'never actually use it'." He allowed himself a grin, making Una laugh. Tristan just shrugged.

"There are other ways to tell your ancestors apart," said Una, drawing them back to the lesson. "Many kings had extra titles; it was a way to seem grander and be memorable. There was Quintus the Just; Nonus, Guardian of the Mountain – he fought off trolls who meant to destroy the city – Unodecus the Dragonslayer, and Quartodecus, Master of the High Crags. I'm not actually sure what he did," she admitted, "but later one, some of those titles were adopted by kings who wanted to seem more impressive, and eventually they became inherited along with the crown. You," she said to Tristan, "will be called by all of them."

He let out a breath, neither resigned nor reluctant, and said, "I suppose I should learn what they mean, then."

Una nodded, giving him a proud smile. "It'll only be on formal occasions," she promised. "Well then, 'Keeper of the Citadel'. It was first earned King Duodecus..."

The stories behind each title were moderately interesting, and although Una's memory – or tutors – sometimes failed her, Tristan learned enough to understand their historical significance and keep them more or less straight. His mother then went on to describe some other important traditions and the stories behind them, including the tale of Tertius the Fourth, whose cleverly faked death was the reason why such pains were taken to return the bodies of dead princes. It was interesting, if morbid, but Yvaine wasn't the only one pleased to hear the soldiers call a halt for lunch.

It was just after noon, by Dunstan's watch, and the day was bright and warm. They had stopped beside a little pond lined with tall grasses and tucked between two low hills which protected it from the wind. A spattering of large rocks lay nearby, and while the family sat on a large picnic blanket spread beside the water, the soldiers who weren't standing watch or tending to the horses sat by those rocks or against the hill, breaking out their own food and talking amongst themselves.

Well, most were talking. One, a young man named Corvin, was chewing absently as gazed across the water at the beautiful woman who smiled widely as she threw bread to some ducklings; she looked as delighted and curious as if she'd never seen them before. Corvin's smile was dreamy, his eyes distant, and as her wonderful laugh echoed across the water, he let out a long sigh.

She'd smiled at him earlier; he'd been sent with another junior soldier to spread out the blanket, and when they were done she'd thanked them – not the offhand, insincere words they were used to, but bright, genuine gratitude and a sunny smile that was fixed forever in Corvin's mind.

Watching her now, seeing her pale hair shimmer as she flipped it from her face, watching her long, thin arm reach out to the basket, Corvin sighed again. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly in love.

Behind him, someone snorted. "Keep dreaming, boy," said a rough voice. "You've not got a chance."

Ears burning and face red, Corvin turned back to his companions. Every man in the circle was grinning, some kindly, others not. "I know that," he muttered. Looking up, and seeing that their amusement had not waned, he added, defensively, "I wasn't doing anything wrong."

"No, you've just been staring at her for the past hour," Lieutenant Eldon said lightly. "And helping her out of the carriage, volunteering for the night shifts, carrying her bags..."

"'Oh, let me, ma'am!'" Sergeant Rollon mocked in a high, squeaky voice. "'Do you need anything, ma'am? Oh I'm sorry, I mean... _Yvaaaaaaaine_...'"

The others laughed heartily.

"She wants us to call her that!" Corvin defended, now thoroughly humiliated. "She said so – you were _there_, sir! She hates being called 'Highness'!"

Eldon conceded this with a nod, but then Rollon, who did a much better imitation of Yvaine's tones than Corvin's, said, "'I have a name. I _like_ my name. Please _use_ my name.'"

The men laughed again, a good-natured sort of chuckle that wouldn't disturb the family who sat just out of earshot. "Never heard of a princess who didn't like her title," mused Lantor, an older, burlier guard.

"She's not a princess yet," Eldon pointed out, but it was waved off by a general murmur that she would be, soon enough.

Eldon nodded again, then carefully asked, "So, ah, does anyone... know who she is?"

The circle ripped messily with shrugs. "Not any noblewoman I've heard of," said Lantor. "Strange name for one of that sort."

"Strange girl," declared Rollon. "Very strange. So's the prince, for that matter."

"Mind your tongue," warned Eldon.

"Didn't mean anything," Rollon replied with a shrug. "He's of the blood, he'll be our king – no one's arguing that. But he's not like the others."

"Certainly not," snorted another man. "But Princess Una was always a bit different, too."

"He always says 'please'," added Corvin, who had overcome his embarrassment – and his longing gazes – enough to join in again. "He always asks, never orders. It's always 'If you don't mind', or 'When you have a moment'."

Lantor nodded. "I like that," he declared. "Humility in a king can only be a good thing. If our new prince can look at a servant and see a person, then maybe he'll see to it that people like us get some respect."

Nods and murmurs; "Hear, hear!" they replied, lifting their bottles in a vague attempt at a toast. There was a heavy round of half-hearted _clunks_.

"While we're on the subject," said Rollon, leaning back against his small boulder, "has anyone figured out how we could have overlooked a real blue-blood all these years?"

"I thought he lived across the wall," said Corvin, who hadn't really given the matter much thought. Now that he did a few ideas clicked together in his head, and his eyes lit up. "You think he comes _from_ that place?"

"Don't be foolish," snapped Eldon. "He's one of us. You saw the blood."

"Yes, but–"

"I've no doubt that Princess Una sent him there," said Lantor. "It's the only place he would have been safe. There's no way he could have grown up in Stormhold without somebody finding out about him, and we all know what would've happened then."

Memories of their royal commanders, the harshest and most hated of which was locked in a coffin behind them, gave all the men reason to pause and shudder. Corvin rubbed the elbow where he still bore a nasty scar from one of Prince Sextus' famous tempers – Prince Tristan might not be good enough for someone as lovely and kind and sweet as the Lady Yvaine, but he certainly didn't deserve _that_.

The conversation turned to other matters, and Corvin tuned out. His eyes were drawn back across the water, to the laughing girl. He smiled.

* * *

By dusk they reached the town of Hop, which for all intents and purposes was just like Market Town, though smaller and lacking a sense of impermanence; all the buildings in Hop were stone, and every business was there to stay. The local garrison was housed near the gate, and Captain Oltran brought them there first, walking all over the local captain to add more men to the royal escort and, strictly following Prince Tristan's orders, sent others back to Market Town to help with the fledgling Wall Guard.

Una, meanwhile, was determined to make their presence known, and so she led Tristan – and two bewildered local soldiers – into the shopping district in search of a jeweller and a new chain from which to hang the royal ruby. There were several able craftsmen, all of whom fell over themselves to serve the Princess, but she eyed their samples critically and shook her head, politely but firmly dismissing them.

Tristan frowned. As they walked away he asked, "Mother? What was wrong with them?"

"The quality just isn't high enough, Tristan. You're going to be wearing that ruby every day as a symbol of your authority; it can't be anything less than perfect."

He quietly disagreed. He had no desire to wear any jewellery at all, let alone a stone that was worth more than his old house, but said nothing. What would be the point?

Soon enough, once the villagers began to point and whisper every time they passed by, Una declared that they were ready to find an inn. Yvaine, Dunstan and the other soldiers joined them, and as a single solid mass they approached Hop's most respectable inn, _The Laughing Dragon_, and marched in.

To say they made a grand entrance would be something of an exaggeration. Captain Oltran went first, hand on hilt and wary of danger, followed shortly by his lieutenant and the family. Other men followed, but as there was nothing strange about soldiers coming in for a drink, no one inside took any notice of them. In fact, most people didn't even look up; there was no noise or fuss, nothing to attract attention.

Some heads did turn, of course, and more followed when they saw the loveliness of the ladies or the odd tension in the unfamiliar soldiers, but there was no great upheaval until one young man – a lanky, rather dirty redhead – looked up from the bar and cried out, "You! You're the _fallen star_!"

Instant commotion. Drinkers spun round on their seats or shot to their feet, chairs scraping and beer mugs clunking down. There were shouts of surprise and scoffs of disbelief, but everyone turned to look. Some craned their heads while others just glanced at each other, and a few had greedy, ambitious gleams in their eyes.

No actual threats were made, but the sudden start put Oltran on edge, as did the new information that he, as their protector, should have known. He backed up to stand between Yvaine and the redhead, who was standing shakily and obviously drunk, still staring. By this time Tristan had done the same, loosening his sword and standing in front of Yvaine and his mother. Una fell with practiced ease into the midst of her protectors, pulling Yvaine, who was squinting curiously at the redhead, along with her.

Then, quite suddenly, a tall and sturdy figure appeared from the darkness on the far side of the bar. He was grey and fast moving, and in a moment had grabbed the redheaded drinker by his collar, hauling him away from the guards and snapping something about keeping his large mouth shut.

Oltran instantly stiffened and drew his sword. "Corvin! Fetch backup! _You!_" he addressed the grey man. "You are under arrest!"

He stepped forward pompously, as though determined to make this arrest go precisely by the book – after all, Their Royal Highnesses were watching. As he did so, Tristan suddenly had a clear view of the large grey man.

It was Captain Shakespeare.

* * *

Author's notes: The Latin numeral names aren't exactly right, but as "Octodecadus" is a little easier to understand than "Duodevicensimus", and it's almost impossible to work out that "Undetricensimus", for example, means "twenty-ninth", I've streamlined them.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Twelve_

Everything happened very fast. There was a shriek of metal as Shakespeare drew his sword, a thud as the redhead was shoved aside, a crash and clatter as tavern patrons scrambled away, and a roar of voices crying, "THAT'S OUR CAPTAIN!"

Five scruffy pirates burst out from the dark far side of the bar, weapons drawn as they charged Oltran. The captain faltered and Shakespeare's blade hit his with a _crash_. There was a mad uproar as the townsfolk screamed and fled, knocking down chairs and tables as they hurried out of range.

The guards drew their swords, ready to take on these dangerous criminals, and all might have dissolved into bloody chaos had Tristan not found the breath to shout, "CAPTAIN, _STOP_!"

Remarkably enough, they _did_ stop. They _all_ stopped; the soldiers because they had been trained to, the pirates in surprise, recognising that voice. Nearly everyone turned to look at Tristan, and if he had realised how he sounded – calm, confidant, coldly angry – he might have looked it, too. As it was, his hands shook as he pushed his way out of the protective circle.

He approached the two captains, watching Shakespeare intently. The pirate, who had been focused on the crossed swords, finally saw him, and for a moment their eyes met. A very quick, trusting look passed between them, and though the captain had no idea what was happening, he gave Tristan a short, sharp nod. He did not lower his blade.

Tristan's boots clacked in the silence as he reached them, his own sword now sheathed and one hand resting on the hilt. Oltran, who understandably thought that the order was meant only for him, stared at his prince in disbelief. Tristan stared back. "Captain, lower your weapon."

"But, Sire–"

"Now."

It was the first time Tristan had given such an order; flat and final, without any explanation. It was the kind of order Oltran was used to. He obeyed.

Tristan turned to the other pirates, whose hands were tight on their swords as they kept up a wary defence; they weren't nearly as trusting as their captain. Tristan wished he could say something, anything, to explain all this to his friends, but it just wasn't possible. He was a Prince of Stormhold, and they were outlaws.

By rights, he should arrest them all.

He couldn't possibly do that. Nor could he let them go without undermining any respect he might have earned from the soldiers. He didn't need his mother to tell him that a king had to put the good of his country above personal friendships.

He still couldn't do it.

A tense silence settled over the room as law-bringers and criminals faced each other. The townsfolk who hadn't managed to get out were watching from the far walls with a fascinated sort of wariness. Shakespeare's gaze flickered back and forth between Tristan and Oltran, trying to work out the connection. At last Tristan spoke.

"Captain Shakespeare," he said formally. "I didn't expect to find a man of your _reputation_–" he lingered on the word "–here in Hop."

Shakespeare's eyes glinted. Gruffly, he replied, "Where I go is none of your business, boy."

Oltran flared, "You will address His Highness as _Prince Tristan of Stormhold_!"

Shakespeare's eyes opened a little wider, but otherwise there was no fault in his acting. "I'll address '_His Highness_' any way I please," sneered the captain, the tip of his sword still held level with Tristan's nose. "Now what do you want?"

Tristan kept his face and voice neutral, deliberately using the most formal type of speech he knew. "As a Prince of Stormhold, it is my duty to arrest you and your men for the illegal trade of magical goods."

"You're not going to do that," Shakespeare said confidently.

Tristan's expression flickered and for a moment he looked desperate. _I need a reason, any reason..._

He must have been silent too long because Shakespeare hurried to say, "See that, boys?" to his men, gloating. "Sometimes there's profit to be made from leaving 'em alive."

"I owe you," confirmed Tristan, back on solid ground and ignoring the look on Oltran's face. "What do you want?"

The captain smirked. Sheathing his weapon, he folded his arms and leaned against the bar. Picking up someone else's drink, he took a long swig and set the glass down with a _clunk_. "Very good wine," he declared. "Must be expensive. I'm glad you paid for it."

Tristan didn't dignify that with an answer.

"Let's see... We came here to re-supply, so it'd be nice if you could settle all our debts. A few more barrels of ale wouldn't go amiss. My ship's got a broken window, you can fix that... And," he said smugly, "our equipment is getting a bit worse for wear. You can replace it."

"That's going too far, Captain," said Tristan, making his voice as scathing as possible. "I won't do anything to help you steal more lightning."

"Won't you?" asked the pirate in a low, serious voice. "Too steep, you say?" He walked right past his 'enemy', calmly approaching the pack of soldiers until he was only two bodies away from Yvaine. "Do you really treasure a bit of spark over the life of your... _very_ lovely companion?"

Tristan's face darkened and he glared in apparent fury – something he was becoming rather good at. "I think," he said coldly, "that we should discuss this in _private_."

Shakespeare spread his hands in a smug, sneering gesture of agreement and sauntered away, heading for a corridor that would undoubtedly lead to the inn's ground-floor bedrooms. Tristan spared a moment to glance back at his parents, who nodded at him with wary understanding, and saw that Yvaine was pushing her way out, intent on joining them.

He stopped and turned back, catching her by the shoulders. Just loud enough for others to hear he said, "Stay here, Yvaine."

"What? No–"

"Captain Shakespeare has a fearsome _reputation_," said Tristan. "I don't want you to get hurt."

She glanced at the pirate crew, who were now certain that this was some sort of act, then at Oltran, who was sure of exactly the opposite. Glaring, annoyed, she stepped back and muttered, "Moron."

Tristan pretended not to hear that.

He turned to see the pirate waiting impatiently at the mouth of the corridor. As he reached it the older man stalked ahead, opening the first door he came to and barging in. From inside, a shriek was heard, then a roar – "_Out!_"

An elderly woman, assisted by her son, scuttled into the main room in her nightclothes. Tristan offered them an apology as they passed, then had to stop for a moment as Oltran moved to enter the room as well. There was a brief but fierce argument, which ended with the solider waiting in the dark corridor, ears strained for any sign of trouble.

Inside, Tristan closed the door, let out a deep breath, turned around and grinned. Shakespeare tilted his head, smiled, and gently applauded. "_Very_ nice," he said lightly. "Even _I_ almost believed you."

"It wasn't you I had to fool," said Tristan, walking into the middle of the room. The captain shrugged merrily and reached out to hug his young friend, clapping him on the back.

"It's good to see you, my boy," he said fondly. "Now come, sit down – tell me _everything_."

They each took a seat at the room's small table, where the old lady's dinner was still steaming. The first thing Tristan said was, "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I had no idea you'd be here. The last thing I wanted was to get you all arrested."

"You couldn't have known," assured the captain; "we had a spot of trouble after you left us at the lake and changed our plans a little. _You_, however," he smiled, "are supposed to be in Wall with your Victoria."

Tristan grinned and glanced down. "My plans... changed, a little."

Shakespeare clapped his hands together like a merry schoolboy. "Ah! Wonderful. So, when's the wedding?"

Tristan's eyes shot up. "How did you know?"

"Oh, it was so obvious, my boy, just from a _moment_ of seeing the two of you together – you know, secret smiles, unbridled happiness, that sort of thing; I even thought I saw her sparkle, even though you were arguing. True love _always_ finds a way to shine through."

Tristan shrugged and smiled, blushing a bit and giving up the question. "Well, you're right. And we haven't really decided yet. A few months, probably; Mother says we should settle into life in Stormhold first."

Shakespeare's eyebrows lifted. "So you _did_ find your mother?"

Carefully, Tristan said, "She's Princess Una."

"Aaaah," said the captain, leaning back and nodding. "That _would_ explain it."

Tristan shrugged, fiddling with the silverware before him. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"Dear boy, none of us choose how we're born." He tilted his head and gestured wryly to his pirate garb and cutlass. "So, you're going to be our new king," he said cheerfully – then hesitated and asked, "Can I assume that Prince Septimus...?"

"He's dead," said Tristan. The captain looked extremely relieved.

"Well, I'm sure everyone's glad of that," he said mildly. "Very dangerous man to put on the throne. Very dangerous. Which reminds me – I'm _so_ sorry about Bernard. New crewman," he explained with a delicate little shrug. "Found him at the lake, lost – haven't yet decided if we'll keep him. I had _no_ idea he'd go and say something like _that_."

"Bernard – the redhead?" asked Tristan, squinting as he tried to place the name. Shakespeare nodded. "But how did he know about Yvaine? We haven't told anyone but you – and my parents."

The captain shrugged again, not knowing the answer, then frowned and furrowed his brow. "Am I to take it, Tristan, that you plan to keep pretending she's human?"

Tristan nodded. "If no one knows, there's no reason for them to threaten her," he reasoned.

Shakespeare looked doubtful. "Do you really think she can hide it? Stars glow, it's in their nature; she can't live a lifetime without doing so. How long will it be before someone else guesses? Even my crew figured it out, and they only knew her for a few days."

Tristan grimaced. "What good would it do to announce it?"

"It would give your men the chance to protect her properly," said Shakespeare solemnly. Then, glancing at the door, he said, "But that's for you to decide. Right now, we have other problems to solve, and not much time to do so."

With a businesslike nod, Tristan asked, "How long do you need to get everyone out of Hop?"

"Less than an hour. A few of us came here for a drink and to meet a contact – you'll understand if I don't tell you who he is – and the others are stocking supplies across town. When James sees us leave the gates, he'll fly low and pick us up just over the nearest hill."

Tristan nodded. "I can order the guard not to stop you and to stay in the town. I'll have to pretend to hate it..."

"Just act like you did before," said Shakespeare, patting his shoulder. "Grudgingly indebted. You did wonderfully."

"Thanks," said Tristan, and they both stood up. "...Captain?" Shakespeare turned; Tristan looked reluctant. "When will we see you again?"

The pirate shrugged, sadly now, and sighed. "I don't know. In another life, perhaps."

"But–"

"I can hardly drop by the palace to take tea with Your Majesty," he said with a little mock-bow and a smile.

"I know," said Tristan, smiling back. "Maybe... in disguise?"

"Maybe," said Shakespeare, but he didn't sound optimistic. "Tell Yvaine I'm sorry we couldn't talk, and that I'm happy for you both. And she really must work on that waltz," he added. "Queens do a lot of dancing."

Tristan chuckled. "I will. And the crew..."

"I'll tell them."

Both men nodded, approaching the door. "Ready?" asked Shakespeare. Tristan shrugged and arranged his expression into one of resolution and resentment. "Ease up a bit," advised the captain. "Use your eyes, not your jaw. We don't want them thinking I swindled you out of anything other than an arrest."

Tristan nodded and reached for the door. "Goodbye," he said.

Shakespeare nodded. "And to you. It really was a pleasure."

The prince smiled, rearranged his face, and opened the door.

Oltran looked unabashedly relieved, falling into step behind Tristan as they returned to the main room. He glared hatefully at Shakespeare.

No one had moved, not even Yvaine, who stood stubbornly outside the circle of protection. The soldiers still had their swords out, tips now resting on the floor, and the pirates were faking carelessness, leaning on the bar and tables, sipping whatever drinks they could reach. All looked up as their leaders came in.

"Captain Oltran," said Tristan, stopping and waiting for the man to step into his view, "these men will be leaving town immediately. You are not to stop them."

The soldier shook his head, frowning. "Sire, I cannot–"

"Yes, you can," said the prince in a quiet voice. "Send two men with them to pass on the order. No one is to follow them beyond the walls of this town." He turned his gaze to Shakespeare, who had resumed his mask of Ruthless Marauder And Cold-Blooded Killer. "Does that satisfy your terms, _Captain_?"

"It does," Shakespeare replied.

"Then my debt is settled. Goodbye."

He turned and walked away.

* * *

For the next hour, Tristan waited. He sat, very still, at yet another table in yet another rented bedroom. His feet were tucked under the chair and his fingers were in constant motion – small, twitchy moves kept tightly within the circle of his hands. Occasionally he drummed broken patterns on the tabletop. Firelight flickered in the corner of his eye.

Una sat beside him, slowly and calmly eating the fine dinner that had been set out for them both. Tristan's plate was untouched. She said nothing, but her eyes often flicked up to glance at him, then returned to the meal. Glass clinked, the fire crackled, and metal scraped against china; in the thick silence, it was all absurdly loud.

From beyond the walls came quiet _thud_s as people walked along the corridor, and a hazy murmur of jumbled voices drifted up from below. Every so often Yvaine's fierce tones or Dunstan's warmer ones could be heard through the left wall; the star, angered by her exclusion, had stormed off and shut herself in the next room. In other circumstances, Tristan would have gone after her, but this time it was his father who had cautiously knocked and followed her in, and after a while her sharp rants had been replaced with easy talk and light chuckles. From the few words that made it through clearly, it seemed they were discussing the other William Shakespeare.

In contrast, Una and Tristan sat in a tense, heavy silence. No word had yet come of the captain's escape, and everything that could possibly go wrong with his plan had occurred to Tristan at least twice; his ears were strained for any clang or crash, shout or scream – anything that might indicate a fight, or an arrest.

Nothing.

Una wasn't nearly so fearful, but ate with a stiffness that betrayed equal tension. Tristan, preoccupied, didn't notice. He was absorbed in the wait.

Of course, as is always the case when waiting for something, Tristan found himself very surprised when it actually happened. His mind had wandered from disaster scenarios to memories, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he remembered those few wonderful days aboard ship; days he wouldn't trade for anything. It wasn't just that he'd made so many friends among the crew – James, the first mate, Ralmon, the quartermaster, Izzy and Bren, Tirlan, Sam, Rudy – something about _him_ had changed there, something important. But, swordsmanship aside, he couldn't put a finger on what.

But it made no difference, not to his current problems. However right or wrong it was to help pirates, those men were his friends. They'd taught him so much, and not just about catching lightning – they'd explained where they sold it, and why, and how it would slowly decay into useless sparks if left alone too long. They explained why it was such a valuable commodity and how the king tried so hard to keep total control over its harvest. They described the watch system of Lightning Marshals and told exaggerated stories of their own escapes, and all along Tristan listened, fascinated, asking as many questions as he could. He tried to be careful about it, constantly afraid they would catch on to his lie, but after a while it became clear that, no matter what he said or did or asked, they were _never_ going to–

_Knock, knock, knock_.

Tristan jumped, a sharp white _twang_ of fear shooting through his chest. He sat up straight and looked at his mother, who set down her fork and raised her chin, waiting for him to act. Tristan turned to the door and said, "Come in."

Captain Oltran entered with Captain Lorne, commander of the Hop garrison. They bowed in perfect unison. "Your Majesties," said Oltran. "The pirate Shakespeare and his crew have left Hop. As _ordered_, sire," he added, not quite able to mask his distaste.

Tristan closed his eyes, shoulders slumping slightly. He tried to look sorry, or angry, or anything but relieved, and settled for a blank expression. "Thank you, Captain," he said softly.

Una asked, "Was there any trouble?"

"No, Your Highness," said Captain Lorne brightly, still caught up in the glee of her miraculous return. "They left without incident."

"And where did they go?"

"So far as we observed, in a nor'north-easterly direction. Your Highness," he added, bowing deeply to his princess. She gave him a polite smile.

Tristan offered a warmer one and nodded at them. "Thank you," he said.

Lorne bowed again and retreated, but Oltran, who had been around Prince Tristan long enough to be a little braver, hesitated. "Sire," he said carefully, "if I might ask..."

Tristan shook his head. "No, Captain," he said gently. "Don't ask."

Una said nothing at all, so with that, Oltran had to be content. He bowed and murmured apologies as he left, closing the door behind him.

As soon as the metal catch _clicked_ into place, Tristan relaxed completely. He slumped in his chair, tilting his head back towards the ceiling and let out a long breath, broken by occasional barks of dry laughter. Sitting up, he rubbed his face and smiled at his mother, reaching for the cooling food. "I don't know _what_ I'm going tell him," Tristan said lightly, lifting some meat and nodding to the closed door. "This is all so strange."

"Best to not say anything," advised Una, eyes fixed on her plate. "You're not obliged to explain yourself to him."

"I know, but I don't like to do that." He shrugged, swallowed a bite and added, "I'm just glad it's over. This was too close."

"We were certainly lucky," Una agreed blandly.

Brow furrowing over the top of his glass, Tristan took a sip and peered at her. "Mother?" he asked. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be glad that this turned out so well."

"I'm not so sure it did, Tristan. You took a very big risk, and if anything had gone wrong..." She gestured absently across the room. "It might have ruined everything."

"I know," said Tristan, still feeling a cold echo of his fear, "but it was the right thing to do." She made no reply, and after a long moment Tristan frowned. "It _was_, wasn't it, Mother?"

Una put down her fork and sighed, laying both palms flat on the surface of the table. "I don't know, Tristan. It's... not what I would have done."

He tilted his head to the side, confused and rather disappointed. "But how else could they have gotten away? Should I have told Captain Oltran the truth?"

"Absolutely _not_," declared Una. "Consorting with criminals is one of the few things that could keep you from the throne entirely." Softening a little, she added, "I can't think of any other way to have achieved this result, but it was still much too risky."

"But it _was_ worth it."

"That's up to you," said his mother, retrieving her fork and turning back to the meal. Tristan shook his head.

"Mother, I want to know what you think."

"I think you did the best you could."

"_Mother_," persisted Tristan, looking straight into her eyes, "what _is_ it?"

She paused. Then:

"I don't trust pirates, Tristan," she said flatly. "Not any of them. I spent twenty years following Sal through Stormhold's criminal underworld, and I promise you, most of those people don't deserve to live."

Tristan sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "The Captain's not like that. He just pretends to be. I told you about it."

"And I believe you," she said. "I'm _glad_ he's not half as terrible as they say, but tell me, Tristan, why must he pretend at all? Why couldn't he have tried to live a proper life instead of building up this reputation for cruelty?"

"...He promised his father," Tristan defended. Una said nothing, but her frown made it clear that this simply wasn't good enough.

"Tristan," she said at last, "I appreciate what you tried to do. It was the best choice you could have made under these circumstances, and I'm glad it worked out."

He waited. "But?"

"But now it's over, and I think it'd be best for everyone, including Captain Shakespeare, if you put this friendship behind you."

Tristan blinked. His lips parted, moving to form silent, broken words until he closed them and looked away. His eyes refocused on the familiar streaks of polished wood, and he pressed his thumbs together.

No. Just... no. That wasn't an option, that wasn't fair. How could he do it? How could she even _ask_ it? Never mind that Shakespeare himself had suggested the same thing – it wasn't a choice Tristan could make. _Forget_ the Captain? Forget his friends and those wonderful days in the sky? Pretend it hadn't happened and arrest the 'criminals' if they ever met again? No. Never. He couldn't do it.

Looking at his mother, he found no comfort. Una was sitting straight, hands neatly folded in front of her. She looked sorry and sympathetic, but there was a distance to her that Tristan felt very strongly. This was at all nothing like talking to his father; instead he was reminded of Mrs Cherry, his school teacher, and had a sudden urge to flee the room.

Instead, he asked, "Why?"

"You are a Prince of Stormhold," said Una, "and you have a duty to your people to do what's best for _them_. Pirates like Shakespeare make their living by undermining the system of trade that we need to keep our country running. Even if they aren't killers or blackmailers, they are working against the best interests of our people." Pausing, she reached out to take his hand. In her eyes was a warm spark of excitement that Tristan found completely unwelcome. "I have spent twenty years learning everything I could about this underworld; I know names, places, contact codes, supply chains and a thousand other things that we could use to bring down the black market." Her eyes bore into his, and there were flickers of fierce, determined joy. "We could uproot the _entire network_. Do you know how many beggars could be fed just with the money we lose to stolen lightning?"

Tristan looked away. It made sense – of course it made sense; everything his mother ever _said_ made sense, but that didn't mean he liked it. Of _course _he wanted to help people. He'd seen the urchins scraping a living in the streets of Market Town – he'd gladly given a handful of coins to a tired, dirty woman with two ragged-looking children. In Wall there had been no such poverty, and it made him sad and angry to see richer merchants walk past the homeless without a second glance, yet...

Yet he simply couldn't connect their suffering with Captain Shakespeare. The friendly crewmen had explained, several times, that they turned to piracy because they just couldn't find any other work. They were without family, poor and largely uneducated – save for Shakespeare himself – and Stormhold already had plenty of labourers. They talked about the government as if it were simply hoarding the money for its own sake, and from the excessive wealth he'd seen Primus carrying on a supposedly rushed and urgent quest, Tristan found it hard to disagree. But Una's words made sense, too.

At last he replied, "I can do my job without forgetting the Captain."

"Forgetting will make it easier," said his mother, touching his shoulder, "and it's important that you don't appear weak. If you show mercy to these pirates again, others will try to take advantage of you. Not just criminals, either; you must be able to face down the noblemen. You have to prove yourself."

"I'm _trying_," Tristan said earnestly, and there was a glimmer of hurt in his tone. "I'm trying, Mother, and I want to learn. I want to help. But I can't arrest the Captain. If he's ever caught, I don't know what I'd do."

Una pulled her hand away and for a moment, it hung limply near her throat. Then she put it down and her gaze dropped to the plate. "With some luck," she said distantly, "that will never happen. Let's just hope you don't have to face such a choice."

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

* * *

In the next room, Yvaine sat at a table with Dunstan, happily eating her own dinner and talking non-stop. Still new to food of any kind, she insisted on trying everything, taking a piece of this and a bit of that until her plate was full and rather messy. Some vegetables were perched precariously on one edge to make room for bread and sausage, which itself was fighting for space against potatoes that were either dry and mashed or drowned in gravy. She was enjoying every moment of it, flipping her attention between the delights of taste and the conversation.

Dunstan, who knew exactly what he wanted and always left behind a very tidy plate, made no comment on her over-eager table manners; their discussion was much too interesting. "So, you could see _every_ detail of the stage from above?"

"Anything that was open to the sky, yes," she replied, "it's just something stars can do – but only from above. Down here, my vision seems to be the same as yours." She shrugged. "Anyway, yes, I could see it, but sometimes the angles were bad, and it was a bit hard to follow the story when all I could see was the top of the actors' heads – especially if they wore big hats. It made me miss a lot of details."

"But you could hear what they said?"

Yvaine squinted a little and tilted her head sideways. "Sort of. It's much harder during the day, when there are crowds nearby, but after seeing a play four or five times, I could usually follow it – though there were always bits that didn't make sense."

"I suppose it would be hard," mused Dunstan, scraping a few more sausage crumbs onto his fork, "for anyone who hasn't grown up in our world to understand all the historical references Shakespeare makes."

She made a face. "It still sounds like you're talking about the Captain."

With a smile and a shrug, Dunstan took a bite and paused to consider the girl across from him. "But how is it," he asked, "that you could spend an hour arguing the finer points of _Hamlet_ with me if you missed so many details?"

"I really don't know," she said, absently scooping up some greens. "I just... watched, and I listened to people talk. I understood the characters, more or less – once I knew how it would end, it was easier to figure out the beginning."

He laughed again. "I'm sure it would be."

There was a pause, then, and Yvaine fiddled with her glass. Her silver ring tapped against it, making a pleasant _ping_ sound. With a smile, she tapped it again, listening to the sharp, fluting noise and gazing at the blue stone. "I should talk to Tristan," she said suddenly. "You were right, I wasn't being fair. I just wanted to see the Captain."

"He'll understand," assured Dunstan. "He's just worried about your friend; otherwise he would be the one sitting here."

"Worried?" asked Yvaine, brow furrowed. "About what? Their lie worked."

"Things could still go wrong – but I think it's all right," he added quickly. "I heard soldiers talking next door a while ago, and if anything had happened, I'm sure someone would have told us."

Not the least bit satisfied, Yvaine frowned and stood up, striding out the door. Dunstan followed a moment later to find her questioning a guard in the corridor. By the relieved slump of her shoulders, he could easily guess what was said.

A few minutes later, they had joined Una and Tristan in the next room, and Yvaine made her apology quietly, looking rather embarrassed. Tristan, holding her hand, just smiled and said it was fine.

He looked relaxed, Dunstan noticed, but there was an odd twist to his face that didn't quite fit. Una, of course, was as cool and calm as ever, and as Yvaine started to ask a steady stream of questions about different kinds of food and drink, leaning over to smell every dish, Dunstan simply shrugged and joined the conversation.

A short while later, Una excused herself. "If you plan to be here for a while," she said to Yvaine, "I think I'll take a bath before bed."

The others simply nodded and said goodnight, thinking nothing of it; Una loved baths, and had been taking so many that Yvaine joked that she must be trying to make up for all her years of slavery in a single week. They turned back to the conversation, jumping from topic to topic and chatting merrily for at least another two hours.

At last Yvaine started to yawn and, after saying her own goodnights, left for the next room, absently combing out her hair with her fingers. She smiled at the soldier who opened the door for her, walked in without really looking, and managed three steps before stopping dead in surprise.

Una was curled up on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, and crying.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Thirteen_

She hadn't _meant_ to end up in tears.

It had started out calmly enough; leaving to take a bath had never been an excuse to vent her feelings in secret, and she had called for the innkeepers with no particular fuss or hurry. The bath had been filled and the dinner plates cleared before she dismissed the staff, climbing in to soak up its heat and enjoy a little time in which she didn't have to be responsible or all-knowing – didn't have to be a _princess_.

After all, royal daughters of Stormhold simply did not cry.

It was something she had been taught from childhood; she could still remember her mother's calm instruction on the matter, and her father's somewhat less patient lectures when she failed. Her brothers had tolerated it, though, when she was little – she could still remember, with perfect clarity, the gentle look on Primus' face when her new china doll had been thrown into a snow bank. "_Shh... it's all right,_" he'd said, hugging her small, trembling shoulders. "_Dolly's fine, dolly will be all right..._"

But Primus was dead.

They were _all_ dead. Una was the last Princess of Stormhold.

And she shouldn't be crying.

With a long sigh, she lifted a wrinkled hand from the lukewarm water and rubbed her aching, swollen eyes. She shouldn't be, but she was. She couldn't help it. In her mind's eye she kept seeing Tristan's face, over and over as he pulled away from her at the dinner table, stung with surprise and hurt and... and... something else. Something she wished she understood. She hadn't meant to push him so far into politics, or so far away from her. Caught up in her enthusiasm, she hadn't realised that her son simply might not see things the same way.

_Fool_, she scolded herself. Of _course_ Tristan would think differently – he was a grown man, a friend to those pirates, and knew his own mind. Of _course_ he didn't need his mother to lead him around by the hand.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? Tristan didn't _need_ her. Oh, certainly, he needed someone to teach him history and politics, but a tutor could do that. He didn't need a _mother_.

And she hadn't been much of a parent to him anyway. She'd given birth, sent him away, then returned to saddle him with a responsibility that he very clearly did not _want_. No wonder, really, that whenever Tristan was worried it was his father he turned to, not Una. Oh, he tried to be quiet about it, but she was observant – twenty years as Sal's slave made that a necessity – and she had seen those few quiet moments when the men talked alone, and Tristan had always returned a little bit happier, a little more at peace.

Being with his mother seemed to have the opposite effect.

It didn't help that there was almost no chance for her to be the sort of gentle, loving mother that she should have been; since he never came to her with his problems, all they ever had to talk about was the crown – his duties and her expectations. Cool, distant, and formal, it was like a glass wall between them, and no matter what she said, no matter how desperately she pounded on it, that wall simply would not crack.

A lump rose in her throat again, knotting and pulling at her chest until she sucked in a short, harsh breath. Her shoulders shook as she let it out, squeezing her eyes shut. This was no good. She couldn't fall apart _again_.

Reaching for the towel, Una distracted herself by doing what she always did best; work. She applied herself to the task of drying her body and hair with the same straightforward efficiency that soldiers used in battle. She wrapped herself in one cloth and used another to dry her hair, stepping carefully on parts of the floor with no carpet and using a third towel as a mat, standing on it while she dressed. She sat on the bed and stretched her toes toward the fire, drying out the water wrinkles while her nimble hands worked a comb through her dark hair. It wasn't an enchanted comb, of course, and her hair didn't lengthen with every stroke, but she planned to find one of those soon enough – they were fairly common among the nobility, long hair being a very old-fashioned sign of wealth, and as soon as they reached the palace–

The comb clattered to the floor as Una suddenly flung it down, choking up, feeling her eyes itch and water while she clenched her fists and pressed them to her forehead.

What was the point? What was the point of going back, of taking Tristan with her or teaching him anything if he _did not want the job_? The crown meant nothing to him, that much was clear. He was doing this out of necessity, out of obligation, not because he thought their blood was anything important. She was teaching him things he didn't really want to know, didn't care about, and might never use, because he still had the choice to leave, however difficult it might be to follow through. So why did she _bother_ to recite history lessons word-perfect if he could still run away and never come back?

...Because all she wanted, all that really mattered, was to be his mother. This was the only way she knew how.

Her breathing was erratic, air dragged between gritted teeth while her shoulders shook with every stifled sob.

It wasn't fair. She had wanted so desperately to raise him, to cuddle her baby boy and sing him to sleep every night – and she had; for one perfect week, she had. In a tiny room at _The Slaughtered Prince_, she had held him and fed him and memorised each of his small, perfect features. She had stroked his soft head and laughed in delight when all five of his little fingers wrapped around one of her own. She'd wanted nothing more than to stay there forever with the child she loved so much.

But fate had denied her that. Fate had sent Sal in to check on her, still infuriated by the entire affair, and Hatha's adamant claim that she hadn't yet recovered her strength was annulled by a simple spell Sal 'wasted' to examine her. A single week, seven days later, and Una found herself writing a letter that wouldn't be read for almost twenty years.

Now Tristan was grown up. He didn't need her.

_That_ was how it happened; that was how Una, Princess of Stormhold, came to be curled up on a bed in _The Laughing Dragon_, a spare blanket pulled messily over her shoulders and wet hair leaving stains on the pillow. That was how Yvaine found her, innocently humming a broken tune as she walked in. She stopped abruptly, the door banging shut behind her.

"Una?"

The other woman didn't answer, merely lifted her head to look at the girl, then dropped it back to the pillow with an almost inaudible sigh. Yvaine's brow furrowed. Two long strides brought her to the bed and she sat down, her weight causing the mattress to sink a little. With her usual blithe lack of decorum she asked, "What's wrong?"

Una closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Calmly, she said, "It's nothing, Yvaine."

The girl snorted. "It can't be _nothing_; you didn't even cry when the witches were about to kill us. What happened?"

A moment's pause. "Nothing happened, everything's going very well," Una said in an empty voice. "Better than I could have hoped for."

Yvaine frowned, annoyed – so _this_ was what Tristan had meant when he'd said his mother had been "tight-lipped". Recalling the details of that brief conversation, Yvaine narrowed her eyes and asked, "Is this about letting the Captain go?"

Una gave a sharp, half-strangled laugh. "No," she said. "One more pirate ship out there will make little difference."

"So what is it?"

But Una shook her head, rolling onto her back to offer the girl a tired smile. "Don't worry about me, Yvaine," she said, patting her hand. "I'm fine, I'm just... tired." Even she didn't seem to believe that weak excuse, and turned her face back to the fireplace.

The star frowned, tapping her fingers and watching for a minute. In the back of her mind, she knew the polite thing to do was leave – she obviously wasn't wanted, and Una could certainly take care of herself – but at the same time she remembered, with perfect clarity, sitting in the carriage during that horrible ride to Carnadine, when Una had stroked her hair and shushed her tears. No, she couldn't leave. She just wasn't sure what to do next.

Her eyes narrowed again as she took a minute to watch the princess lying still on the bed, trying to think this through. At last she announced; "I don't believe you."

Una blinked, her thoughts having long since wandered elsewhere. "What?"

"I don't believe you. You're not the type to cry over nothing, so something has to be wrong." She hesitated and asked, "Can't I help? Or... is it _me_? Did I do something?"

"No," Una said firmly, and she immediately pulled herself up to sit. Her half-dried hair flopped over her face and had to be pushed back, and she did so without ever taking her eyes from the star. Squeezing her hand, Una promised, "It's nothing to do with you."

Reassured, Yvaine nodded and asked, "Then should I go and get Tristan, or D–?"

"_No._"

Una caught herself and softened her voice. "No. Please... don't tell them about this. I don't want them to know. Promise me."

Yvaine watched her for a long moment, lips pressed together as she considered it. Slowly she nodded and said, "All right, I promise."

Una squeezed her hand again, letting out a breath. "Thank you."

"But I'm not leaving until you tell _me_," she declared. "You have to talk to _someone_ – sitting here alone isn't going to fix anything."

The princess pulled her hand away, but otherwise remained calm. "There's nothing to 'fix'," she replied patiently. "There isn't any problem to be solved. This is just... life. It's the way things are."

"That doesn't mean you can't change it."

Una smiled indulgently and shook her head. "Can you change who your mother is?" she asked rhetorically. "You told us she doesn't want you to be here, that she's forbidden your sisters to talk to you, and I know you're angry about it. Can anything you do change the fact that you're still _her_ daughter?"

Eyes narrowed to slits with suspicion, Yvaine said, "This is about Tristan, isn't it? It's about you and Tristan."

There could be no doubt that she was right. First Una winced, then she stiffened a little, shoulders tightening as she clenched the blanket, then she dropped her gaze and bit her lip, toying with the ribbon on her nightgown. Yvaine waited, patient yet uncomfortable, until Una was ready to look up. Her dark eyes met Yvaine's blue ones and she confessed, "I don't know my son, Yvaine. I always thought that if we met, it would be as though we'd always lived together. It's not. I don't understand him. I want him to be happy, but I don't think I can do that. _You_ make him happy – you, and his father." She hesitated. "I need you to do something for me."

The star slowly nodded. "All right. What?"

"Be honest," said Una. "I need to know if Tristan... likes me."

Yvaine blinked. "_What_?" she asked, nearly laughing. "Why would you ask _that_?"

"Because he clearly doesn't _want_ me to be here," replied Una, her voice rising for the first time. "I'm not the mother he wanted. I'm a princess, and I've made him a prince. I've turned his life upside-down and it's only going to get worse." She shook her head and said, "He might have been happier if we'd never met."

"Oh, don't be _stupid_!" snapped Yvaine, rising to her feet. "Tristan doesn't resent you for being royalty."

"But he would prefer it if I'd turned out to be someone else."

Yvaine stopped cold, and there was a painful silence. Una smiled – a tight, pained, resigned smile.

"Look," Yvaine said, stammering a little, "it's – it's not that he doesn't like _you_. There's a difference between you and the job that you're bringing him."

"What difference, Yvaine?" she asked sadly. "His mother is a princess. I can't be one without being the other."

"Which is why we're here," she argued, grasping one piece of logic that could help. "Tristan likes you – _loves_ you – enough to come all this way and do the job just to be with you."

"No," corrected Una. "He's come to Stormhold to be with _you_. He said it himself, the day we went to Wall. He left Wall early to meet you; he didn't stay to be with me."

Yvaine threw up her hands. "You're not even _trying_ to fix this!"

"There's nothing to _fix_," Una snapped, her tears welling up again. "I am _not _the mother he _wanted_!"

"Neither is _mine_!" Yvaine retorted, her temper flaring. "My mother's an ancient, narrow-minded goddess with thousands of daughters she barely talks to. I still love her. Tristan loves you – why can't you believe that?"

"Because I don't deserve it!"

Again, Yvaine blinked, mouth slightly open as she shook her head in confusion. Una was serious, though; misery was written all over her pale, blotched face. Yvaine softened, sinking back down to sit on the foot of the bed, but her voice still held a hard edge. "What could possibly make you think that?"

"I gave him up – yes, I _know_," she said, raising a hand to forestall protest. "I know – I had no choice, Sal would have killed him. That doesn't mean I was a good mother, or that I deserve him; I still wasn't _there_. I don't deserve to have him. Dunstan managed just fine anyway," she finished bitterly.

Yvaine shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"He didn't need me either. Tristan turned out wonderfully with only his father's guidance. Even if I had been there, I couldn't have done any better than Dunstan."

"...You _do_ know Tristan was very different when I met him?" Yvaine asked with a small, dry smile. "He changed a lot that week. It wasn't all Dunstan's doing."

"So I was told. But Dunstan was the one who nurtured and encouraged him. I couldn't have done that. I might even have ruined all his work."

Yvaine snorted. "Now what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Una paused, which, as Yvaine was starting to learn, was a very bad thing. With absolute seriousness she looked the other girl in the eye and said, "I come from a horrible family. We were raised to be ruthless leaders and cold murderers, and no one can _escape_ that sort of thing. I'm not as nice as you might think, Yvaine; I abandoned my brother to his death in Carnadine. I didn't do anything to stop the others trying to kill each other before I ran away, and I've used people as means to an end all of my life. If _I_ had raised Tristan..." she suddenly deflated, her energy spent. "I'm afraid he would have turned out like me."

Wrapped deep in the blanket's folds, Una shuddered. Yvaine, quiet and thinking, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "That didn't happen," she said. "If what you say is true – and I don't think it is – then what we have now is the best possible option. Just accept that. You can't go on feeling guilty for what might have been."

Miraculously, Una smiled – a real, honest smile, however small and brief it was. She watched the girl, tilting her head a little. "You're very wise, Yvaine," she said.

"I'm a _star_," the girl replied dryly. "I've had a lot of time to watch people make mistakes."

It was the wrong thing to say. Una's face fell, and she shied out from under Yvaine's arm. "I'm sure you've seen the things my ancestors did," she said distantly.

Yvaine admitted, "Some."

"And you _really_ want to be part of this family?" Una scoffed. "Our heritage is written in blood – blue _and_ red. We have a history of stone hearts and fanaticism. Did you know," she asked with mock-brightness, "that every time my brothers and uncles visited a brothel they would force their women to drink sterility potions, just to make sure there wouldn't be extra contenders for the throne?" Without waiting for an answer she went on, scathingly, "Did you know that if their mistresses were caught trying to hide a pregnancy, they could legally be killed on the spot?" Yvaine flinched and looked away. "Did you know that I – and all my aunts – were forced by law to drink those potions every month on pain of _death_?" She fixed her haunted eyes on the star. "If anyone had found me, or Tristan, we would have been executed for treason. We are a _horrible_ family!"

"Were."

Una blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Were. Not 'are' – _were_. Only you and Tristan are left, and you're not like that. _I'm_ not like that, and neither is Dunstan. History can't change who we are now."

"The past still _matters_, Yvaine," said Una. "Our heritage matters – why would anyone want to be part of my family?"

With a gentle innocence that shouldn't be possible for someone so old, Yvaine replied, "Because they love you."

Una turned away.

"Tristan loves you," she pressed on. "He doesn't care where you come from, or what your family did, or if you _might_ have been a bad mother–"

"What if I still am?" Una argued sadly, smearing away the tear that spilled from her eye. "I have no _idea_ what to do; I don't know what he wants, or needs – if he needs anything. When he was a baby I was his whole world, and he was mine, but now I don't know what to do. I can tutor him in politics, but that's not being a _mother_." She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "What am I supposed to do?"

Yvaine shrugged. "Be his friend," she said. "Talk to him, trust him; just bethere for him. He wants to get to know you – he'll come when he's ready. You've only known each other for a _week_. Be patient. It'll be fine."

"What if I make a mistake?"

"You fix it. He'll understand."

Una hesitated. "...And if I disappoint him?"

The star wrapped her arm back around Una's shoulders. "All he wants you to do is love him."

"I _do_ love him."

Yvaine smiled. "Then nothing can really go wrong."

* * *

Night passed slowly, brightening and turning to dawn. Una slept, swollen eyes buried deep in her soft pillow, and Yvaine gazed out the window to the cold, white moon.

* * *

Morning at _The Laughing Dragon_ was a bustle of activity. Besides the usual clamour and fuss of any inn, Captains Lorne and Oltran were striding around the place, assigning men to guard every second window and furiously debating over who was to continue escorting Their Royal Highnesses to Mount Huon. Oltran won, and managed to keep a full half of his own men in the party before Lorne sneakily sent some Hop soldiers ahead to prepare supplies and guard the younger princess. Yvaine, up early for reasons no one was quite sure of, informed them that she wasn't _actually_ a princess and would they kindly stop calling her that? Corvin, her doe-eyed admirer, then took it upon himself to scold anyone who made that mistake again, deeply offending some of the Hop folk and earning a glare from the lady in question. The inn staff scrambled back and forth to prepare an 'adequate' breakfast for the family, fretting and begging to know what was wrong when Yvaine offered to help, and then, to top it all off, more of Stormhold's endless supply of gawping townsfolk found reason to visit the _Dragon_, crowding the place and causing an excess of stubbed toes and spilled drinks.

And all that was _before_ the royals arrived.

A corner table by one window had been reserved, laden with serving dishes and the inn's best china, protected from the eager crowd by three standing guards who almost stopped Dunstan before Sergeant Rollon recognised him. "My apologies, sir," he said, bowing. "They did not know your face."

Dunstan, who had found himself largely unnoticed whether he liked it or not, gave an awkward smile and took his seat.

Una, looking tired but impeccably groomed, diligently smiled and greeted everyone as she walked in, taking four times longer to reach the table than Tristan, who was merely stared at, or Yvaine, who waltzed past them with a cool, forced attempt at her normal cheer. There was far too much food for them to actually eat, but the variety was welcomed.

"What is this?" Dunstan asked casually, using his fork to spear some diced meat with a strange consistency. "I've never seen it before."

With barely a glance, too busy scooping porridge, Una replied, "Crocodile."

Tristan nearly choked, then glanced at his eggs dearly hoping that they came from a chicken. He met his father's reproving gaze, then continued to chew, trying to taste without squirming – and found that it was, in fact, fairly good meat. He swallowed. "So, uh, Mother?" he asked. "What are we doing today?"

"I should think that's up to you, Tristan," she replied softly, carefully. "We could continue our journey immediately, or delay here in Hop for a few hours."

"And make sure everyone has seen us?" he asked with a knowing smile. Una, feeling immensely relieved and scolding herself for it, smiled back and shrugged.

"It wouldn't hurt," she admitted, "and there's a lot I want to show you. I don't know the families of this town anymore, but the market is quite good and I thought you might like to have some more good clothes. Other than your English fashions, I mean," she added quickly, glancing at Dunstan.

Dunstan said nothing and Tristan shrugged, his smile fixed. He was about as interested in clothes as most other young men would be, but tried hard to seem enthusiastic. "If you think I need it," he said lightly.

Una's smile shrank a little. "What you have is fine, Tristan. I just thought you might like it."

There was a brief pause. Then Tristan said, "I really don't know, I've never _been_ shopping like that. It sounds like fun."

If Dunstan was at all embarrassed by this admission, he didn't show it; his parents never had the money for extra garments when he was a boy, either. "Perhaps you could show us around?" he asked.

Una smiled. "I'd like that."

* * *

They set off quickly, thanking the flustered staff and paying them handsomely, despite protests. A small crowd of onlookers followed a few paces behind all day, restrained by soldiers, but once the family learned to ignore them they had quite a nice time.

Tristan really wasn't interested in buying clothes and Una made no fuss about it. She led them around the market, quietly answering any questions they had about the many enchanted tools and products. Though Market Town had been full of magical wares, Tristan was amazed to learn just how many ordinary-looking things weren't ordinary at all; for one, the plain woven baskets he had ignored after a single glance turned out to be almost bottomless, able to hold far more than their outward size implied. Dunstan was fascinated, examining one hard, hand-sized wicker box for nearly ten minutes, putting everything from his watch to his arm inside it, trying to determine its limits – for, he insisted, even magic had to have some logical rules.

"There _is_ a way to calculate it," Una said quietly as they walked back outside, "but it depends a lot on the warlock who cast the original spell and the magical density of the plant it was made from."

Dunstan just shook his head in almost childish awe, a grin in the corner of his mouth and his new basket tucked protectively under one arm. Una walked beside him and smiled.

Despite the vast selection and their heavy coin purse, the four of them actually bought very little; Una found an enchanted comb to lengthen her hair and bought a map of the country with which to teach Tristan, as well as some little items that were minor necessities – soaps and such. Dunstan was content with his basket and kept opening it to see all their new possessions somehow fitting into the tiny space while Yvaine looked around happily, the thought of actually owning any of these things meaning little to her compared to the experience of seeing and touching them.

There was one shop, though, that took her in completely. It was one of those quiet places, with walls draped in heavy green fabric and everything dusted to give a feel of age and respectful elegance – not, Tristan thought, that it needed much help. The entire room was filled with delicate crystal trinkets, many of them wind chimes and many more chiming anyway. Small, scattered tables were covered with the fragile objects, and Yvaine's eye was caught by the tiny statue of a sleeping cat.

She might have passed it by, even missed it entirely, if the little white creature hadn't chosen that very moment to wake up and stretch, blinking at the star with huge green eyes before lifting a small paw to tap her finger.

Yvaine _melted_, delightfully picking up the cat and lifting it to her face, running a careful finger over its back of clear crystal beads. It sat in her palm, tail wrapped neatly around its paws, and looked up pleadingly, a little tongue of pink stone flicking out to brush Yvaine's nose.

It was the lick that did it. The people watching her – Tristan, Dunstan, Una and an ecstatic shopkeeper – knew the moment she looked up that the little cat was _hers_. The price, while steep, was insignificant.

"So what does it do?" asked Tristan as they returned to the sunny street, Yvaine still cuddling her pet.

"Nothing," said Una with a slight, fond shake of her head. "Nothing useful, anyway. These sorts of things are just ornaments, entertainment for the wealthy." Yvaine, quite literally beaming, didn't seem to care. Una just smiled and gave her the practical details. "It will stay within a handspan of anywhere you put it, whether that's a table or in a box. Usually they 'sleep' when no one is around – not real sleep, though; it just mimics life."

"That's all right," Yvaine said cheerfully, and her glowing hands made the little cat sparkle. "I'm not sure a real animal would like me very much; Selena said that at first she scared them, because we don't smell like real Earth creatures."

Una nodded absently, having heard that part of the legend long ago. Her attention was fixed on her son, who was peeking at Yvaine's cupped hands with a wide smile. "You had a cat once, didn't you, Tristan?"

He looked up with some surprise and nodded; she seemed very proud to know about it. "When I was little," he confirmed, smiling. "Her name was Spot."

"_Spot_?"

Tristan shrugged, slightly embarrassed by Yvaine's tone. "She was all grey except for a white spot on her ear. I was _eight_," he defended, "it made sense."

The star laughed kindly and Dunstan chuckled, patting his son's shoulder. He looked at Una, who was ridiculously delighted by this conversation and asked, "Did you ever have a pet?"

"Not cats or dogs, no," she replied. "Septimus had a kitten, when he was very small–" she broke off, remembering her father's firm decree that Princes of Stormhold did _not_ own anything cute or fluffy, no matter how sharp its claws were. Septimus, true to form, had been trying to train it as an assassin. Shaking her head and pushing the thought aside she explained, "We had different sorts of pets; some types of animals are considered more appropriate for the nobility."

"Like what?" asked Tristan.

Una opened her mouth to answer, then paused and smiled. She pointed ahead to a jumble of pens and cages, where people in somewhat worn farming clothes spoke enthusiastically to anyone who stopped to listen. Funny trumpeting sounds came from inside the pens, and as they approached, Una's family found themselves facing an assortment of miniature elephants.

Tristan gaped, turning to his father with a delighted, incredulous stare. Dunstan, who'd had a brief glimpse of such creatures once before, now bent over to see them properly, awed as he took in the little gold spheres that tipped their tusks and the detail of the embroidered red cloth covering their backs. He looked up at Una with wide-eyed fascination.

She smiled. "I take it you like them?"

"This is _amazing_."

Una laughed freely, sharing a glance with Yvaine and pleased to no end by their reactions. "We call them oliaphs; they're bred almost exclusively to be pets for noblemen." She shrugged. "It's fashion."

Tristan, his face bright with enthusiasm, nearly pounced on her to ask, "But where do they come from?"

She kept smiling widely, squeezing his hand and delighting in the contact. "I'm not sure. They've been in Stormhold for centuries, but we've bred them for so long that no one is sure where they lived naturally. Is there something similar in England?"

"Not England itself," said Tristan, crouching in front of the pens to watch the little creatures. "There are much bigger ones in other parts of the world, though."

He was grinning widely, reaching out to a gap in the fence where one oliaph was watching him with clever dark eyes. It poked its trunk through the gap to touch Tristan's hand in greeting. Both his parents had to cover or suppress potentially embarrassing fond smiles. "Would you like to have one?" his mother asked, half serious. Tristan shook his head.

"No," he said lightly, letting the affectionate creature wrap its trunk around his wrist. "No, this is enough."

At last Oltran approached, politely noting that Her Majesty had said they would depart at noon, which had passed quite some time ago. They accepted this easily and returned to the town gate, Yvaine still blissfully cuddling her cat, but this time the four of them climbed into their carriage with no sense of routine or reluctance – they were talking and laughing, making for such a pleasant sight that the townsfolk felt free to wave and call greetings, which were returned with dignified cheer.

Prince Tristan left a good impression on the people of Hop.

* * *

Author's notes: The name "oliaph" is a play on "oliphant" – it was actually just a filler name I used while writing, but it stuck. I didn't realise that the little elephants in the movie had two heads until after I wrote this. Oops.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Fourteen_

The next few days passed easily, with a familial cheer and comfort that, until now, no one had realised was missing. Their discussions became livelier, happier, often jumping off topic to tell funny stories or debate interesting points. Una's lessons continued, of course, with more fine details as they approached the city, but whether it was her own perception or a change in Tristan himself, she no longer felt like he was listening just to please her. He was often confused or overwhelmed, but genuinely interested.

Having summarised four thousand years of history in less than four days, the next logical step was geography, and with it came the names and politics of all the noblemen who governed various counties; Una's knowledge was somewhat out of date, of course, as men fell out of royal favour every day, but for the most part the same families remained in charge of the same areas, and that was more than enough to learn. The map bought in Hop was invaluable, and soon Tristan could tell the Debatable Hills from Cragland, name each of the Catavarian Isles, outline Berinhed's Forest and locate the tiny lake island of Garamond. To his surprise, he memorised all this very quickly – aided, Una thought, by his instinctive knowledge of direction. Her feelings about this particular family trait were only slightly tainted, and it was a delightful surprise to realise, one afternoon, that she'd been talking about her relatives for over an hour without a single pang of shame.

Sharing a glance with Yvaine, she smiled.

Dunstan was enraptured by the map, shaking his head in awe as he measured distances for the third time and repeated that it must be at _least_ twice the size of England. Yvaine murmured some sort of confirmation, spending so much time wrapped up in the delight of her stone cat that Tristan, sitting right beside her, was feeling a little neglected.

Halfway through their sixth day of travel – a dark, grey day that kept threatening rain – the road began to grow steeper and rockier; they had reached the farthest foothills of Mount Huon. Una, starting to feel the pressure of time, moved on to sketching out plans for what she called their 'Presentation' – the critical moment when Tristan would be formally introduced to his people. "It's imperative, I'm afraid," she said, sympathetic to her son's reluctance. "Even if we could ignore all the old traditions surrounding a coronation, the people need to know exactly what's happening, Usually the surviving prince announces his victory from the Grand Platform. As Primus' body has been returned – by one of Septimus' men, I believe – everyone will simply be waiting for my last brother to arrive. We _must_ use that moment to gain your public support."

Tristan shifted uncomfortably. "A speech?"

"Yes," Una said gently. "I'm sorry, Tristan, but you'll just have to get used to it – a king does this sort of thing all the time. I'll say as much as I can myself," she promised, squeezing his hand. "They'll want to know what happened to me, and I can spare you most of the explanation, but..." She hesitated, glancing at Dunstan, who was reading something he'd brought from England. "Well, first we have to decide _what_ story we're going to tell them."

Dunstan looked up, puzzled, keeping a thumb between pages as he met her gaze. "You don't think they would believe the truth?"

"I don't think they would _accept_ the truth," she said. "England isn't quite real to us– them. _I_ know it's real," she said, apologising for her fumble, "and no one will deny that the wall exists, but we've avoided it for so long that the reality of a whole world on the other side is rather hard to swallow."

Dunstan's brow furrowed, absently reaching out to close a curtain as the rain began to smack loudly against their windows. "The men who helped to carry our wagon across didn't seem concerned."

"Stormhold soldiers are well trained to hide their feelings," Una replied, "and it's not so much that anyone denies the existence of your world, but more that... we just don't want to think about it." She lifted her hands, shrugging. "That's really the best explanation I can give. A world without magic... it's like choosing to live in a world without light. The mere mention can make people uncomfortable."

Tristan glanced at Yvaine, who had fallen asleep beside him (probably, he thought, because she had stayed up all night again trying to talk to her sisters). A world without light? It was hard to imagine, but as an abstract example, it managed to convey the feeling well enough. He nodded and said, "So you think we should pretend I grew up in Stormhold."

She gave Dunstan an uncomfortable glance. "It _would_ imply that you know more about day-to-day life here, and that you care more for our country than a stranger from the other side would – especially if they think I was there to raise you. We could still excuse your lack of political knowledge; there are many, many backwater towns and scattered homesteads where a boy could grow up knowing almost nothing of the court, and that kinds of history would still earn more respect from the nobles than the truth – less than a month of knowing about our world won't inspire much confidence in your ability to rule."

Though it wasn't a solution he much liked, it did make sense. Tristan nodded. For a few minutes they discussed the finer points of this lie, including how to explain having to carry all their luggage 'back' through the gap ("We'll tell them we fled to England a few years ago after nearly being discovered," Una shrugged. "It's what I would have done, and will explain your friendships with the villagers") then returned to the speech itself. Mostly, it was a game of balancing what Una insisted _must_ be said against what Tristan really _could not_ say – it still had to be _him_, Dunstan insisted; Tristan's character couldn't possibly be hidden, not if he would be doing this for the rest of his life. And wouldn't people prefer to have a leader who showed mercy anyway?

"As long as he still appears strong," cautioned Una.

Tristan, who was beginning to feel somewhat like a cow being bartered at a market, glanced at Yvaine. "Shouldn't we wake her?" he asked. "I think this is important enough for her to know."

"Everything we've been saying for the last week has been important, Tristan," his mother replied with dry humour, "and this really will be your show. It's _your_ image we have to promote, and generally the choice of wife makes no real diff..." she trailed off, eyes growing distant as something occurred to her. She tapped her lip, thinking about it, and said, "Actually, perhaps we... No," she shook her head. "No, maybe not."

"Mother?"

She looked up, cheeks a little red. "I just realised that the next queen of Stormhold will be a _star_," she explained, embarrassed. "I don't know how I could have missed the implications. The simple fact that a fallen star has chosen to stay down here to marry _you_ may well win you more favour than any king since Galdon."

Tristan raised his brows, worried. "That means we'd have to tell everyone what she is. She could be in danger."

Una nodded solemnly, gaze dropped as she considered it. "It should be her choice."

It was not, however, very easy to pull Yvaine out from inside her warm, comfortable green cloak. She had no desire _whatsoever_ to be pulled from the serenity of her dreams, and after being ignored, groaned at, jabbed, shoved aside and outright threatened, Tristan tried to pull her cloak away. When that failed, he tickled her.

Yvaine shot upright, shouting and slapping his hands away. Tristan drew them back in cheerful surrender, grinning, and Yvaine clamped protective arms around her middle, breathing hard. She glared and demanded, "_What_ are you _doing_?"

"Waking you," he replied innocently.

Scowling, Yvaine returned the favour. She poked her sharp hands into his ribs and smacked his raised arms, snatching the book out of an amused Dunstan's hand to hit him harder as he chuckled, and muttered with every strike, "Don't you _ever_ – un_fair_ – not _funny_ – you _scared_ me – you _moron_..."

"Yvaine," protested Una, who was trying not to laugh aloud. "Yvaine, that's enough... Enough! There's something we have to talk about."

Slowing, and now awake enough to feel a little sorry for her cringing victim, Yvaine did so. She returned the book with an overly-polite, "_Thank_ you."

Dunstan, still amused – Tristan wasn't actually hurt – took it with an equally serious, "You're welcome." Smiling, he added, "I'm glad I never had to wake _you_ up."

"Hmm?"

"That's how Father used to wake me," explained Tristan, theatrically rubbing his shoulder. "When I was very little."

Una smiled brilliantly, a perfect image forming in her mind: Dunstan, tickling their young son as he shrieked and giggled and promised to get up. Then his father laughed, lifting and swinging him around in the air. It was almost as good as a memory. Almost.

"So what's important this time?" Yvaine asked, breaking her reverie. "The number of gems I have to wear in each earring?"

"Not quite," said Tristan quietly. "Mother thinks it might be best, politically, if we tell everyone that you're a star."

She stiffened. "No."

"But–"

"_No_. Those people in Hop were ready to kill me. So was your uncle. I'm only safe if it's a secret."

"Someone might guess, Yvaine," Una explained. "Rumours spread quickly, and everyone already knows a star has fallen. It won't take much work to make the connection, especially since that boy shouted it out in Hop. Better that you announce it now than be accused later."

She shook her head stubbornly and said, "Tristan and I already decided..." but she trailed off at the look on his face.

"I talked to the Captain about this," he confessed, "and he agrees with Mother. If at least the soldiers know, they can protect you."

Any earlier distaste for bodyguards was gone; Yvaine replied, "Fine! Then we'll order them not to tell anyone else."

"People aren't stupid, Yvaine," argued Una. "How will we explain why you, as a woman of no apparent importance, have more protection than myself or Tristan?"

"Then you can have even more just to hide it."

"You know that won't work."

The star scowled, cornered but refusing to give in. Appealing to Dunstan, who was quiet as usual, she asked, "Don't I have _any_ say in this?"

He gave her a gentle, sympathetic look, one that reminded her exactly why she'd liked him so much from the beginning. "No one's deciding for you," he promised. "You have to agree before any decision is made. We just want to know that you'll be safe. We're worried about you."

Those soft words put a swift end to any anger that might have built up in the jostling carriage. Yvaine relaxed a little, pleased, while Una and Tristan shared an unhappy glance. "Yvaine," said Tristan, "do you really think you can keep from glowing for the rest of your life?"

She frowned, not having thought of that. "I can try," she said.

"Would you be happy?" asked Dunstan.

Raising her eyes, she met his gaze, and held it for a long moment. "...No."

She looked around, at all their faces, hating the small voice in her head that agreed with them.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

Yvaine agreed, eventually, but it was no meek submission. She scowled at any mention for several days, glaring at the poor, confused guards but never actually sending them away as she had been so prone to doing before. She struck up a friendship with some of them – a distant, formal friendship, of course, but more than Tristan had managed – and by the time they reached Fulkeston, two days later, there were three soldiers in particular that she liked enough to insist that they, and no one else, would be her protectors. The one time Captain Oltran sent another man to follow her, she halted the entire party – all of whom were rather cold and short tempered thanks to a pre-dawn start – to scold him. Oltran, of course, had no idea why this was suddenly so important to her, and fell back into the habit of bowing and calling her "Highness," which earned him another tongue-lashing.

Tristan, doing his best to keep up a princely appearance, had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

Yvaine's three guards were Sergeant Rollon, a shy soldier from Hop named Brevon, and young, eager, fawning Corvin, who took news of his assignment with such delight that children with chocolate would have been hard-pressed to match him for sheer gleeful energy.

Of the three, it was Corvin who happened to be on duty when the Prince and his lady decided to take an evening walk in Fulkeston. Lieutenant Eldon went with him, as Tristan's bodyguard, and the two walked in silence for some time, trailing their charges at a comfortable distance. Dusk was falling and the market was packing up for the night, so after wandering the streets for a while, the soldiers found themselves following Yvaine and Tristan beyond the city walls, out into the cold breeze and tall grasses of the western hill.

There were no people out there, and this particular slope was so broad and high that Corvin and Eldon fell further back, confidant that they would see potential danger long before the royals were threatened. Finally out of earshot, Corvin turned to the older man and eagerly asked, "What do _you_ think?"

"Hmm?" asked Eldon indulgently. "What do I think about what?"

"_Lady Yvaine_!" exclaimed Corvin, forcing his voice to stay low. "Everyone's saying that she's really a fallen star! You met her first – you were _there_. You cut the prince's hand in Market Town–" Eldon winced "–and you introduced them to Captain Oltran! You've seen more of her than anyone, so you _must_ know! Is it true? Tell me so I can tell the others."

"I had no idea my opinion was held such high regard," the lieutenant said dryly. "I don't _know_, lad. I've seen some strange things, yes, and I'm sure there's something different about her, but we can't go jumping to conclusions. Imagine what would happen if word got out, true or not."

Corvin, who had obviously stopped listening after "I don't know", was gazing towards the quiet couple who sat together in the grass. "You know what they say?" he asked dreamily. "They say that if you're kissed by a star, you'll never know sadness again."

Eldon snorted. "Might be true for _you_, lad, but I doubt you'll have the chance to find out. In any case–"

"Oh, _look!_"

Dusk had passed; they were in twilight now, and darkness was engulfing the slope on which the couple sat. Their figures were indistinct, but the soft white glow around Lady Yvaine was unmistakeable. It was clean and sparkling, seeping, it seemed, from her very skin. The soldiers glanced at each other, awed, and even Eldon, much older and wiser, felt like a small child as he watched a fairytale come to life.

* * *

Oblivious to the stares, Yvaine was lying on her back in the grass beside Tristan, whose odd silence was starting to bother her. He'd been cheerful throughout their walk, but it seemed almost forced, and now, as they watched the setting sun leave streaks of light on the sky above them, he was solemn and restless, almost constantly flexing his hands or tugging his sleeve or fiddling with a blade of grass. "What _is_ it?" she finally asked.

Tristan sighed, sitting up and gesturing to the jagged peaks before them. Against the dark sky, their faces lit by the last rays of sunlight, one stood out more clearly than ever; artificially straight and angled, with tiny lights appearing across it, Mount Huon stared down at them, stern and hard. "We'll be there in two days."

"Mmm," said Yvaine, pleased by the prospect and not quite seeing his point. "No more riding in a shaky carriage. I can't wait."

"I can. I'm not _ready_ for this, Yvaine," he said. "I miss Wall. A few weeks ago I knew nothing about this place, and the day after tomorrow they'll put a crown on my head and expect me to lead them. It's too _soon_."

Yvaine frowned, tilting her head as she looked at him. "Er... Tristan? You _do_ know you're not going to be crowned the moment we arrive, right?"

He blinked. "I'm not?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "No. All kings of Stormhold are crowned on the summer solstice – there's some silly belief that starting to rule on the longest day of the year will make them better leaders; something about the sun giving masculine power and glory. It's more than two months away. You've got time."

Letting out a long, utterly relieved sigh, Tristan flopped onto his back, chuckling softly as the tension drained from him. "Two months," he repeated. "Two months. I can learn a lot in two months."

"Of course you can," said Yvaine, and she poked his most ticklish rib, making him jump. "So will you stop _worrying_ now? Una wouldn't let you do this if you weren't ready. Besides, isn't there some rule that says you can abdicate if you want to?"

"There is," Tristan nodded, protecting his ribs with both arms. "We haven't talked about it much, but there is. If I really can't do it, I can give power to Mother until another heir comes of age. But that law was written for princes who hadn't been crowned yet, so I thought–"

"You thought you had to make a final decision _now_." Yvaine shook her head, smacking his arm. "_Moron_."

Tristan chuckled, looking red and sheepish. "I guess I am."

Yvaine laughed at him, shining in the twilight. "I can't believe Una didn't tell you about that."

He shrugged. "I guess she forgot. We've been hurrying through so many lessons lately that even I can't remember what she has and hasn't told me."

There was a moment's pause, then, as Tristan tilted his head and bit his lip, thinking. Then he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. "Does the day actually make a difference?" he asked. "The solstice, I mean; the sun – does it have any magical power?"

"Well, he is my father."

Tristan blinked. "Oh."

"Which doesn't mean much," she went on, shrugging. "He's even less concerned with Earth than my mother, and we never talk to him. He probably doesn't even know that I'm down here, and won't care one way or another when you're crowned. It won't have any effect."

"Oh," said Tristan, reeling. "Well... I guess that's comforting." He shook his head, sitting up and looking back at the peaks, softened now as they melted into darkness. He felt a little better.

There was silence for a while, as Tristan watched the last glimmers of colour leave the sky and Yvaine gazed up at the stars. She smiled a little, watching them, wondering if any still cared to look for her, and fiddled with the silver ring on her finger. "...Tristan?" she asked. "When are we getting married?"

He blinked, twisting around to look at her. "I... hadn't thought about it," he confessed. "Why? Is something wrong?"

She shook her head, smiling and squeezing his hand. "No," she said, "not really. It just occurred to me that most princes don't get married until after they're crowned, so Una will probably make us wait until then, too."

Tristan frowned, then, feeling a bit silly, lifted one hand and kissed her fingers. "Do you think we can talk her out of it?"

Laughing, Yvaine sat up, pulling him with her, and clasped her hands behind his neck. "I hope so," she said, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I'm getting tired of waiting."

"Oh?" said Tristan lightly, grinning as he pulled her closer. "And what, exactly, are you tired of waiting for?"

"You," she replied, and lightly brushed the back of his neck with her fingertips. He shivered. "You," she added dryly, "and five minutes without your parents watching every move we make."

His eyes were closed now, and he smiled, tightening the hug until he could rest his chin in the curve of Yvaine's neck. Her bright hair fell onto his face, and the light shone through his eyelids. "They're not that bad."

She kissed his forehead, then his nose. "Yes they are. We've barely had any time alone together."

Tristan didn't bother to answer in words; he leaned down and kissed her. A proper kiss this time, not like those brief moments they sometimes stole before leaving the carriage or in a corner of an inn – a _real_ kiss, and a lovely one.

(Corvin, watching, felt rather ill.)

Few places could be considered more romantic than this sort of quiet, natural setting. It was like a garden; the breeze was soft and cool, the light a gentle white, the grass soft and dry, and the town just far enough away that darkness enveloped the couple, making them feel alone and special, the only two people in the world.

In such a place, one could easily forget that the stars were hardly silent.

"_Get away!_" cried a small voice, and Yvaine jumped back from her fiancé as if burnt.

"Celeste?"

"_Tell him to go __away__!_" shrieked the little star. "_It's all his fault!_"

Yvaine closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Celeste, what are you _doing_? You can't just _watch_ us like that."

"_You always did_," she pouted, and Yvaine stiffened, embarrassed. Tristan, feeling his face flush a deep red, looked up at the thousands of white lights that domed the sky – any, if not _all_ of them, could have seen that kiss.

"Celeste," her sister said tightly, "_don't_ do that again."

There was no reply, but Tristan had the distinct impression of a little girl stamping her foot in stubborn refusal. Yvaine sighed. "_What_ is all his fault?" she asked.

"_Everything! You're supposed to come __back__! Mama said you'd be here by now!_"

"Mama's wrong. Are we going to keep having the same argument every time one of you talks to me?"

"_Not if you come home._"

"I'm – not – coming – home," she said, slowing to over-pronounce every word. "If I can tell you stories from here I will, but that's _all_, Celeste."

There was a pause then, one long enough for Tristan to notice that the soldiers were carefully coming closer, holding some sort of glowing sphere as they watched warily, unsure of what had happened. They suddenly looked up, along with Tristan, hearing a loud, heavenly sniffle.

"Oh, don't cry," implored Yvaine. She lifted her arms for a moment, reaching out to embrace the girl who was, of course, _much_ too far away. Her arms dropped. "I miss you too. But you haven't lost me; I'm right here. I'm not leaving. I'm not going to die. I just can't touch you."

"_But I wanna see you! Can't I come down_–?"

"_No_!" cried Yvaine. Then, catching herself, she forced herself to at least sound calm. "No. I'm old enough to make this choice for myself, but I won't let you do it. You're not ready, Celeste, you don't understand."

"_So tell me!_"

"No. You _stay there_. Promise me, Celeste. _Promise_."

Silence. Absently, Tristan noticed how dark it really was. Yvaine's glow was faint, almost gone, and the reddish sphere Eldon held was too far to show more than faint outlines. The moon was a thin crescent.

Yvaine waited, staring steadily in one direction, picking out her little sister from the crowd of stars. Finally, Celeste responded:

"_M_'_kay._"

Yvaine's face relaxed into a smile. "Thanks."

"_Nomi says we have to go now_."

"Then go, before Mother throws a fit. I love you, Celeste."

"_Love you, 'vaine._"

Her sister kept watch a minute longer. Then, somehow sensing the change, she turned back to Tristan and shrugged. "Sorry."

He laughed. "It's all right. I should've remembered." Sighing, he said, "I suppose we should go back."

"I don't want to," she replied childishly, but didn't bother to argue. Standing, she brushed the grass from her dress. Tristan leaned over to pick up his sword, and suddenly, Yvaine laughed.

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"Your clothes," she explained, chuckling. "They're all green."

Tristan paused, then pulled off his usually-white coat to find that the back, all the way up to the shoulders, was covered in grass stains. He groaned. "Mother is going to kill me." When Yvaine laughed with a complete lack of sympathy, he added, "You'll have it too, you know."

"I'm wearing green already," she retorted, beginning to walk back towards the soldiers. "Besides, Una's been saying I should wear the blue one for our arrival; apparently it's more suitable."

"Blue is the royal colour," he conceded, walking with her and lifting his coat to examine the stains in Yvaine's starlight.

Noticing this, she made an effort to dim herself and said, "I'm not a _lamp_."

Grinning, Tristan leaned down to kiss her ear. "Close enough."

She smacked him.

Corvin and Eldon waited awkwardly ahead, neither sure if they should say anything about Yvaine's confirmed starry status, or her recent conversation with the sky. Approaching, neither the prince nor his lady said anything beyond a polite greeting and an apology for keeping them out in the cold, so the soldiers merely shrugged and fell into step, trying to do their jobs without being distracted by starlight – or conversation.

"How old is Celeste?" Prince Tristan was asking.

"A few centuries," said Yvaine. "Six hundred, I think. I don't remember; numbers aren't really important to us. Mother keeps watch on us until we're at least one thousand, but it's different for everyone. She's very young, anyway."

Tristan shook his head, incredulous. "Your baby sister is six hundred years old," he mused. "I just turned eighteen. This is _strange_."

She shrugged. "Humans are different. You aren't meant to live as long, so you mature faster. We need decades just to learn how to talk."

"_Meant_," he repeated with a little grin. "My family doesn't seem to care much about what we're _meant_ to do."

Yvaine laughed. "I guess we don't, do we?"

Their conversation went on as they walked back into town, flitting from subject to subject and never lingering on anything very important. At last they reached their current inn, _The Dragon's Keep_, where Una was waiting impatiently.

"_There_ you are!" she cried, striding across the room. "Where have you been? We have a lot to do, and–" She suddenly groaned. "Oh Tristan, your _coat_..."

Tristan bit back a smile. _This_ was what he'd always imagined having a mother would be like. He kept smiling even as she dragged him away.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

_Chapter Fifteen_

Lord Valen Vaardan, mayor of Fulkeston, was having a strange day.

It had all begun early that morning when his son Kel wandered into his office, chewing an apple and looking oddly thoughtful. "Father," he'd said, "there're some funny rumours going round the market." When prompted, he'd gone on to explain that a spice merchant had arrived from Revelry full of stories about the miraculous return of Princess Una – "He says she's on her way to the city, and coming here next."

Quite reasonably, Vaardan had brushed this off as a foolish, if rather pleasant fantasy. The last daughter of Stormhold had vanished almost twenty years ago, and by all rights had to be dead. A shame, really – she'd been such a lovely girl. Vaardan had met her once, at court, when he was still a young man just come into his inheritance. It had only been for a few minutes, and the memory was blurred by his mingled excitement and fear, but he remembered thinking that she was just as everyone always said; calm, pretty, and very honest – her smile and congratulations on his new lordship had been genuine, and in contrast to her brothers (two of which had been there at the time), she'd remembered not only his full name, but his wife's, his mother's, and the family's founding ancestor.

Her disappearance had been a tragic blow to the entire country. No official mourning was ever declared because her family refused to consider her dead. In fact, Prince Septimus had organised a massive search, Princes Sextus and Secundus had viciously interrogated the palace staff, Prince Quintus had travelled the entire country offering bribes, and Prince Quartus had sacrificed half his spy network in search of information. But when months had passed and hope had dwindled, the people of Stormhold had taken it upon themselves to mourn their lost princess anyway. For weeks, black banners hung from every window, black ribbons streamed from every post, and anyone who wore a patch of bright colour was hatefully glared at by all their neighbours.

Princess Una was dead.

Dredging up ghosts to sell your merchandise was a crude and _deeply_ offensive tactic.

After telling off his fool of a son, Vaardan had dispatched a soldier to deal with the merchant and then simply gone about his business, thinking little of it. After all, this sort of thing had happened before – every few years rumours would spring up, offering new theories or titbits of fact about the night Princess Una vanished, and once some stupid woman had actually claimed to _be_ her, striding through some distant northern villages and demanding to be treated like royalty. Apparently those idiot farmers had believed it, too, until a pair of princes rode in and hanged the fool. Pity; no one should throw their life away for something so fleeting.

So Vaardan had sighed, shaken his head, and gone back to work. Not an hour later, the soldier returned, exasperated, and explained that no matter how stern he'd made his warnings, the merchant was refusing to admit to his lie. Annoyed, Vaardan had considered threatening an arrest, but thought better of it and asked his men to simply keep watch and assure any curious townsfolk that the rumours were false.

It hadn't worked. By late afternoon, when the diligent mayor had finished his paperwork, the streets were packed and buzzing with chatter. Walking home, Vaardan was accosted three times in five minutes by people asking him if 'it' was true and what 'she' really looked like and "Oh, isn't this _grand_?" People were bustling back and forth, arms filled with a variety of items, all excited and chirpy and hurrying their burdens to the western side of side of town. Several soldiers he didn't recognise were there too, some running errands, others just running. Putting on his best I-Am-Your-Lord-And-Mayor expression, Vaardan stopped one and demanded an explanation.

"Her Highness wants polishing oil," the boy said.

Vaardan blinked. "Oil?"

"Yes sir. Wood polish. I'm not sure why."

"...Oh." Another blink. The soldier fidgeted. "Well... on your way, then."

The boy hurried off. Vaardan, in mild sort of a daze, walked absently through the streets for a while, telling himself that no, it was ridiculous, it _couldn't_ be true, until he found that the sea of townsfolk had brought him right to the source of their excitement; Fulkeston's best inn, _The Dragon's Keep_.

Two soldiers flanked the door. A flurry of people were darting in and out, each pausing just long enough to be recognised before rushing off to do whatever duty they had apparently been assigned. Stable hands were tending to several fine horses and the roof of a large carriage could be seen peeking out over a wooden fence. More soldiers were in that little service courtyard, and as he passed the open gate, Vaardan could see two wagons being unloaded and tidied up.

A small knot of nerves formed in his chest. Whatever was happening, this was more than a loudmouth merchant or a stupid farmgirl. It _could_ – somehow – be real.

Lifting his chin, he approached the guards and declared, "I am Lord Valen Vaardan, mayor of Fulkeston, and I _insist_ that you stand aside."

The two men glanced at each other. One gave a slight shrug and the other stepped into the doorway, gesturing for the mayor to follow. He did so.

Inside, the _Keep_ looked less like an inn and more like a workhouse: The bar was empty and the game boards deserted, and instead every table had been pulled out to make space for a dozen young ladies, each of whom was measuring and cutting long strips of fabric as quickly as her excitement would allow. Other women were gathered in a circle, sewing, and all were having a lively chat in voices just quietly enough not to bother the knot of people in the room's left and centre, all of whom were busy with sheaves of paper, scribbling notes and scratching off lists, all seeming far to happy given how rushed they were.

A woman was standing in the centre of this chaos, and though she was constantly moving, answering questions and making decisions, she had a cool grace and confidence that leant her more nobility than her fine dress or the pretty jewel binding her long hair. It was by this calm that Vaardan recognised her; the years were too many for him to really know her face, and she had aged besides, but even with all his doubts and cynicism, his first thought was, _It's her._

His escorting soldier was looking awed, too. No, not awed – honoured. He felt very important. They approached steadily, slow enough to be polite and fast enough to convey his rank. The lady's staff, recognising this stride for what it was, backed off and allowed them to speak uninterrupted.

"Your Highness," bowed the soldier, "this is Lord Vaardan, mayor of Fulkeston."

Belatedly, Vaardan remembered to bow, too, removing his puffed hat. The lady gave him a gentle smile, hands neatly clasped before her. "Lord Vaardan, a pleasure to see you again."

_She remembers?_ thought the mayor. "And you, my lady," he said quickly, sounding far less nervous than he suddenly felt. "I cannot say how delighted I am – we all are – by your return."

She smiled again, genuine pleasure twinkling in one eye. Princess Una – for there could be no doubt that it was her – said, "I'm pleased to be home. Thank you for your welcome. I trust all is well here in Fulkeston?"

"O– of course," said Vaardan, flustered. She didn't really want to know about his problems balancing taxes, did she? No, of course not – _Valen, you fool!_ he scolded himself. _You're a grown man, stop gibbering!_

But the princess didn't seem to mind. "I'm glad to hear it. I apologise for commandeering all your craftsmen, but I'm afraid my family and I are in something of a hurry."

"Your... family, of course. Of course," nodded Vaardan. Prince Septimus was with her? Had he found her – rescued her from somewhere? Cold and dangerous though he was, everyone knew the youngest heir cared for his sister, and, judging by the joy on her face, it seemed she loved him too. How was incomprehensible, but somehow it only made Vaardan admire her more.

Without fanfare, a man was approaching from one side. He had a few papers in hand and was silently counting on his fingers, nodding as he went. He looked a bit strange – short hair, Vaardan later realised – but was otherwise unobtrusive, and the mayor would have ignored him entirely if his slight, shifting movements hadn't caught the eye of their princess.

She turned a little and smiled again, gesturing to the newcomer and saying, "My lord, I would like you to meet Dunstan Thorn."

"Ah – pleased to meet you," Vaardan said automatically. _Who?_

Thorn nodded and shook his extended hand. Politely, he looked at the princess and said, "They can manage fifty-three."

Whatever he was referring to seemed to please Princess Una; she let out a small breath and nodded. "Good. I'll be right there. My lord," she said warmly, turning back to Vaardan, "it was a pleasure to see you again. I will be sure to call on you the next time we visit Fulkeston, and you must always feel free to approach us at Mount Huon." With an almost cheeky twinkle, she added, "I promise to stop causing chaos your town by morning. My best wishes to your family. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Your Highness," replied Vaardan, sweeping a bow. "May the stars bless your dreams," he added, instantly feeling silly for using such old-fashioned language. Princess Una smiled again and nodded, and as he stepped away she turned back to her semi-patient staff, including the odd Thorn man, and went back to work.

Before he quite realised it, Valen Vaardan found himself standing outside the _Keep_, hat in hands and glaringly, however politely, kicked out. He couldn't find it in himself to be miffed, though, just startled – and pleased. A funny little smile had fixed itself on his face. Straightening up, he replaced his hat, tweaked it, and sauntered back down the streets of Fulkeston. He was going home, and the first thing he would say to his wife was, "You'll _never_ guess what just happened."

* * *

Inside, Una closed her eyes and tried to drive back a headache as she leaned over the table again. Dunstan, beside her, asked, "Who was that?"

"I have no idea," she murmured so only he could hear. "It's been so long, I can't remember them anymore."

"Your Highness!" cried a short-of-breath woman, scurrying over from the sewing tables. She offered a long, thin strip of dark blue fabric. "Your Highness, will this do?"

Una took one glance and nodded. "Yes, but make sure you have enough black ones." The woman nodded and Una turned to face another patient assistant. "Where is that oil for my brother's coffin?"

* * *

The next morning the royal family set off again, now with coloured ribbons streaming from all the posts of their carriage. Lord Vaardan and his entire family had come to see them off, all in their best clothes, and Una felt a moment's regret for essentially ignoring them. It was a fleeting thought, though, for she had so much else to worry about: Tristan still didn't know half of what he needed to and with time running short, was having a harder time remembering it.

"I call the ministers 'Lords' and the advisors 'Ministers' and the bishop... what do I call the bishop?"

"Ermyn. It was the name of our first real spiritual leader, so it's been adopted as a show of respect."

Yvaine's brow furrowed. "I thought they were called 'Eminence'."

"No, that's too old-fashioned. Ermyn himself was called that, but it fell out of favour after Bishop Seryas managed to overthrow Quartus the Eighth nine hundred years ago."

"A usurpation?" asked Dunstan. "I thought you said your family's reign hadn't been broken since Galdon."

"It lasted less than a year," said Una absently, looking over at the papers in her hand. "Seryas' cult of religious fanatics turned on each other, and when King Quartus returned with his loyalists there wasn't much resistance. It doesn't really count." She flipped to another sheet and skimmed over it before looking up at Tristan. "What do you say if someone asks about the new aqueduct my father was promising to build?"

"That I think it's a good idea and I plan to review the royal finances as soon as possible."

"And if they ask about the tax redistribution?"

He hesitated, eyes flicking up to the roof as he searched his memory.

"Tell them your grandfather's policies were sound, but you think there's room for improvement," suggested Dunstan. "It's nicely ambiguous."

Tristan relaxed a bit, nodding his thanks, but Una frowned – that wasn't in her script. She said nothing, though, and moved on. "What's the first thing you say at an audience with any nobleman, after their name and title has been announced?"

"Er... ask how they're doing?"

"_No_," said Una sharply, locking eyes with him. "You must _never_ ask after someone's health before they ask about yours. That was a trick question – you don't speak first. Etiquette obliges them to ask if you are well first and if they don't_,_ it's a very bad sign." She forced herself to sit back – Tristan was grateful, for her gaze was intense – and added, "It's a sign of submission, remember? You should only ever ask first if you want to show someone a great deal of respect – when greeting ambassadors, for instance, or me; as your mother, I'm supposed to be your social superior, at least until you're crowned."

Tristan nodded and glanced almost longingly at Yvaine, who was only half-listening as she played with her little stone cat. "So what do I do if they don't ask? Do I just say something else? Ask why they're there?"

Una shook her head. "Say nothing at all. You have to demand their respect, so let the silence pressure them. You'll find a lot of people start to fidget after about ten or twenty seconds; make sure you sit very still, and most of them will break."

"And if they don't?"

She hesitated. "I'll be there. I'll say something."

Not particularly reassured, Tristan slouched in his seat, absently reaching up to fiddle with the heavy ruby pendant which hung on new chain around his neck. Una, eyes never leaving the papers in her lap, reached out and lightly slapped his wrist. Tristan blinked. "What?"

"You're doing it again."

"Oh. Sorry."

Una, back in her lists and muttering quietly to herself, didn't answer. Dunstan silently gestured for him to put his hands in his pockets. Tristan did so, and his movement made the ruby tumble from one side of his ribs to the other; a silent roll, but the chain tugged uncomfortably at his neck. Tristan felt silly – the whole thing looked ridiculous, despite his mother's assurance that it was perfect. She'd finally found a decent jeweller in Fulkeston, and to appease her frustration with his grass-stained coat, he'd taken it without complaint.

He really wished he hadn't.

Suddenly Yvaine said, "Corvin asked me a question this morning."

The others looked at her, puzzled. "Corvin?" asked Tristan.

"One of my bodyguards. The blonde one, about your age."

Her fiancé nodded, jaw just a little bit tight. Dunstan noted this with great amusement and asked, "What did he want to know?"

"If a strand of my hair would turn into pure gold if I cut it off," she replied with a look of disgust. "He actually meant it, too."

"What did you tell him?"

"That it was the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she replied, still watching the glass cat as it nuzzled against her thumb. "That's not the point."

Una, having given up on her papers for now, irritably asked, "Then what is?"

Yvaine looked up, and now that his view was no longer blocked by her long curtain of hair, Tristan could see that she was worried; she kept her hands busy with the glass cat as a distraction, but her lips were pressed tight and her forehead wrinkled. "He asked me that in the middle of the market. Twenty people heard it, and they weren't surprised. They already knew."

"That you're a star?" Tristan clarified.

"No, that I'm a goldfish," she snapped. "What else?"

Tired, Tristan just held up his hands in surrender and leaned further back into the carriage cushions. "Sorry," he muttered.

Una's patience was wearing thin too. "You knew this would happen, Yvaine. You agreed to tell them."

"And I shouldn't have. Everyone was staring at me. They used to talk or smile but now they just _stare_, and I can't tell if they're just curious or laughing or plotting to kill me."

"You have protection," said Una, flipping through her lists in search of something. "They'll stare at you for being queen, too. You have to get used to it."

"I don't _want_ to." For a moment she sounded absurdly childish. Then she let out a tight breath and squeezed Tristan's hand, muttering, "But I will."

Dunstan frowned at all three of them. He was feeling the stress too – he particularly shuddered at the idea of standing in front of a crowd, even if he didn't have to say anything – but the tension in that small carriage was building up to breaking point. Yvaine was too scared and Una too stressed to mind how sharp their words were, and Tristan was too nervous to play peacekeeper. That left Dunstan.

"I think it's time for lunch," he suggested after a long silence. "Shall I tell Captain Oltran to stop?" he asked, gesturing to the window.

"We really don't have time," replied Una, not looking up. "I want to be in Cloudsrange before dusk."

"I think it would do us all good," Dunstan urged gently. "We don't have to stop for long."

"Fine."

* * *

He was right, it _did_ help. Tristan just paced and Una simply took her papers along to write more notes, but the fresh air soothed their frayed nerves. Yvaine did better, mainly because she went right up to her personal guards and asked them what everyone in Fulkeston seemed to be thinking. Corvin's reply was as enthusiastic as always so she ignored it, but Sergeant Rollon, who was about as blunt a man as one could ask for, considered it a moment.

"Most of them don't really believe it," he judged. "They'll wait for someone they trust to give a straight answer before they believe it. But everyone seems happy about it; they all seem to think Her Majesty's return is some sort of miracle, and that you're part of it. Like a kid's story. I've not seen anything suspicious, or any sort of threats. To be honest, I really don't see why we're guarding you, ma'am."

"Yvaine," she corrected absently. "Some people seem to think that my body is magical, and that getting a piece of me would make them rich."

"Like what that Corvin said? Only idiots don't know that it's all rubbish."

"It's true."

Rollon stopped cold. He looked straight at her, and she suddenly noticed that his eyes were a very pale grey-blue, almost silver, and piercing. For a moment she was afraid – what if _he_ attacked her, right now? – but nothing happened, and at last the sergeant said, "It'll be the magic traders that know that, won't it? The black market types?"

Thinking of Ferdy the Fence, she nodded, and Rollon frowned, thinking. "We should have Lantor," he said at last. "And Karac, too. Three men aren't enough. I know them, and we've got a few friends in the city..." he paused, tapping his fingers, then said, "I can get you at least eight good men. Maybe more, but not right away; I want to make sure we can trust them."

Yvaine nodded, relieved, and so Sergeant Rollon became the unofficial captain of what would eventually be known as the Star Guard.

* * *

They reached Cloudsrange with time to spare. Commandeering yet another inn, Una immediately set about directing every soldier, innkeeper and passing commoner to help with whatever tasks she had that were yet unfinished: This was their last night to prepare, the last night to catch any mistakes or fix any problems, and Una, already a perfectionist, was driving herself mad.

"Have you any banners? Flags? Then we'll have to make due. Sio, go back to the clothier and fetch me four feet each of royal blue, pale blue, white, gold, and black – no, make that six of black. And make sure to bring thread! Now, Thala, what's this? No – no, I told you, my dress is blue and _gold_; the jewellery has to match. No silver. See if it fits with Yvaine's– oh, no, she can't wear silver either. Put it in my trunk and pay the merchant anyway. Eldon! Lieutenant, find a way to secure my brother's coffin without those old straps – No, I don't care if you have to nail him down, his number _cannot_ be obscured by that worn-out brown leather. ...You could try that, I suppose, but only with black straps, and make sure they're new! Vanna–"

It was chaos, worse than the night before. Dunstan couldn't afford to read notes as he walked for fear of bumping into a table, stepping on some project, or simply being run into by someone else. The entire place was filled with people, twice as many as before, and only Una actually knew what they were all doing. Some girls were sewing, others cutting, boys polished boots and hats and lanterns while outside Prince Septimus' coffin was having its quickly-painted "7" touched up as the wood itself was buffed to shine. Soldiers oiled their swords and wandered around in mis-matched parts of their everyday uniforms because the cloaks and trousers in best condition had been confiscated by the washer-women, who also had all of the royal family's best outfits – Dunstan was in some of his older clothes from Wall, but Tristan had been left to dig through his uncle Primus' luggage for something that fit. The huge metal wash tubs were usually kept in the back rooms of any inn, but with the sheer volume of garments, some of which had to be cleaned very carefully, more had been needed, and they had spilled out onto the main floor.

Passing a table at which several women were stuffing small pillows, Dunstan shook his head, bewildered. It had been like this for hours, he thought, squeezing between two men who were fixing... well, he wasn't really sure what they were fixing, or even that they were fixing it, but they certainly seemed busy.

Una was scrambling about, giving orders, amending orders, double-checking that everyone knew her orders and generally being confusing. Her air of calm confidence was gone; Lord Vaardan would scarcely have recognised her, and there were moments, though very few, when the people of Cloudsrange couldn't tell either.

Dunstan had just been sent to check that the carriage had indeed been scrubbed properly – it had – and was delayed twice on his way back in, first by a worried innkeeper who wasn't sure he had enough food to give all these guests breakfast, then by a round of shrieks in the drying room, where Yvaine's fancy blue dress had, apparently, almost caught fire. The lady in charge promised that there wasn't any actual damage – all right, there _was_ damage, she confessed, but it was on one of the skirt's under-layers and would never actually be seen except by Yvaine herself, and Yvaine, Dunstan knew, couldn't care less. His daughter-to-be had been demonstrating her good sense by taking Una's lists of everything Tristan desperately needed to know and dragging the nervous prince upstairs to quiz him on it. Dunstan would have been surprised if that was all they were doing in the privacy of his quiet room, but at least it spared Una that particular worry.

"What did your soothsayer predict for tomorrow's weather?" she was asking a short, frazzled-looking man. "Hmm? Or didn't he–? Oh, bother, I never asked that, did I?" The puzzled assistant shook his head, no. Una abruptly marched to one window and threw it open, looking out at the starry sky and narrowing her eyes at some distant clouds. "Little wind," she announced. "Good, we should have sun tomorrow. Now what _did_ I sent you for?"

"You wanted musicians, ma'am."

"Yes, that's right," she said, nodding as she leaned over her scribbled list. "Does this mayor have proper trumpeters?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And they know the proper tunes for both a royal victory _and_ a funeral?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And can they–?"

"Una?"

She looked up, briefly, reaching for a quill pen. "Yes, Dunstan, what is it?"

He hesitated, and the assistant took advantage of the moment to scurry away. Una didn't notice, discarding the pen as she flipped through her papers in search of yet another list. "Una, you're tired. I think it's time–"

"Is the carriage ready?" she asked, completely unaware that she was interrupting.

"Clean and polished," Dunstan replied. "Everyone here knows exactly what you need them to do, so I think–"

"And the lamps? The pillows? Have you checked in on the–?"

"_Una,_" he said intensely, taking hold of her shoulder.

She blinked, finally turning to really look at him. "What?"

"Rest. Now."

Shaking her head, she turned back to the papers. "Really, Dunstan, I'm fine, I–"

"Una, you're trying to write with a butter knife."

She stopped, stared at her hand, then dropped the greasy tool and slumped against the table with a sigh. Taking the lists from her hand – all of them messy scribbles of crossed-out or heavily circled items, several of which were repeats, Dunstan gestured to the innkeeper, Mr Kelton, and handed them over. "You know what still needs to be done?" he asked quietly. The man nodded. "Then please see to it that it is. And we would appreciate a pot of tea, when you have a moment."

Mr Kelton nodded again, looking relieved as Dunstan took hold of Una's elbow, guiding her towards the stairs. She stumbled along, mind still down in the busy workroom, and took little notice of her surroundings until she found herself being gently pushed down into a large, comfortable chair. There was a fireplace in front of her, burning dark and low, and Dunstan crouched down to stoke it.

Una looked around, realising that this was her room – the one she had spent two minutes in upon arrival, looking through her travel bag for some missing papers. It was the largest and finest room in this particular inn – she had forgotten the name – and offered a sweeping view of the mountains ahead. Through the blurry glass she could see the speckles of light that stretched beautifully across the face of Stormhold's famous mountain city. She hadn't seen those lights in years, and they were strangely soothing to her, in the way that an old, worn toy soothes a crying child.

For a while, neither she nor Dunstan spoke. Putting away the poker, he quietly took the other chair, absently rubbing a cramped muscle in his hand until a soft knock sounded at the door. He answered it, and walked back a moment later with a tea tray. Una was still staring out the window so he made the drinks in silence, save for the clinking of china, and had to nudge her arm to alert her when it was finally ready.

She turned and blinked, then smiled tiredly and accepted the cup, closing her eyes to breathe in the steam. She took a sip; it was sweet and fresh and fruity, with enough heat and vapour to soothe her aching face. Leaning back into the chair, she let out a long, content sigh and slipped out of her shoes, putting her feet up on the overstuffed footrest that hadn't been there before Dunstan got up.

Opening her eyes, she smiled.

Dunstan returned it. "Feeling better?" he asked, stirring his own drink.

"Mm, much," she replied. "Thank you."

He shrugged as if to say, 'nothing of it' and took a sip. To his tongue it was a strange mix, touched with an exotic spice that, although lovely, made him long for his familiar earl grey. For a while they drank in silence, the heat of the liquid and the fire before them soothing worn muscles and tired minds.

Una returned her gaze to the window, sunk deep into her comfortable chair and murmured, "I'll be home tomorrow."

He looked up, tilting his head in mild surprise. She'd never used that word before and it intrigued him, though he hadn't the energy to do more than lift an eyebrow. "You look forward to it?" he asked. Una shrugged.

"I'm not sure. It's been years, and I was never... well, never completely happy there."

Dunstan said nothing, letting her take her time. She did so, and the clock ticked many times before she said, "When I was little, before my mother died, we were happy. All of us. Between lessons I would play in the garden, and sometimes my tutors would take me out there to study geometry, or whatever it was I had to do that day." She laughed softly. "Mother would pretend to be cross, then come out and join us anyway, pretending that she'd forgotten it all." He chuckled and she shrugged, smiling. "I liked it when she did that."

"I can imagine," said Dunstan. "My father would take me fishing sometimes, and those were always good days. Sometimes we took my friends along, but it was never quite the same... What?"

Una had shifted uncomfortably, nearly undoing all the hard work of Dunstan's tea as she tensed, fingers tightening on the porcelain teacup. "I never had many friends," she confessed, sounding faintly resentful. "My father never let me associate with any girls that weren't from 'appropriately noble' families, so they were all chosen for me; I had no say in it."

"Surely you must have liked some of them."

She shrugged. "There were some. Rial – and Talua, I suppose. Both their fathers were lords of some town or province, and they were nice enough. Sincere, I suppose; they didn't treat me all that differently from how they treated each other. It was nice."

Dunstan smiled, nodding as he took another sip and asked, "Do you think they'll still live in the city now?"

Una turned; she hadn't thought of that. After a moment she said, "Well, they were both betrothed when I left – Rial was married, actually, though I wasn't allowed to attend. Their husbands would have houses in town as well as the country. They might be."

"Maybe you should try to find them," suggested Dunstan. Her face broke into a soft smile and she nodded.

"I think I will."

They sat together for a while longer, finishing one cup of fruit tea and starting another, until Una's eyelids began to droop and the heat of the fire made her sleepy and comfortable. Dunstan carefully took the cup from her hands. "I'll try to find Yvaine," he said quietly. "It must be late."

Una blinked and stretched, nodding. "Thank you for the tea," she said, "and the... company."

"Anytime," said Dunstan, moving toward the door. "Goodnight, Una."

"Goodnight."


	16. Act Four

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

Author's notes: When I began this story in November of 2007, I had no idea what I was in for. I had never written such a massive story before, and at the time I had scene sketches, plot outline and bits of dialogue flying out of my fingers – the usual obsessed-fan euphoria I'm sure you're all familiar with. After a year, though, that steam ran out, and I just don't have the energy or the inspiration to finish this anymore; I held out hope for a long time that it would come back to me, but it hasn't.

But, just as I hate to be left hanging when a story is abandoned, I hate to leave readers empty-handed. What follows now is a summary of everything I planned to write for the rest of _Crowning Tristan_ – material which, if written in prose, would be almost as long again as what's already written.

I had six acts planned, which turned into five (of which three are written), and I have made a (relatively) short summary of important events and all the major points that would have moved the plot forward. But, because I hate to leave anything out, I've also included most of my more detailed notes, including visual descriptions, reminders for things I knew I had to include somewhere, multiple options for points I never actually decided on, random pieces of dialogue, and several scene sketches, some of which are partly written. In other words, it's a jumbled mess that I've done my best to arrange in some comprehensible order to give a more tangible sense of what the rest of this story would have actually been like.

I apologise for all the tense shifts; summaries, I've found, are impossible to write in past tense, but a lot of my notes and scene sketches were written as story prose. I've tried to section it, but frankly, it's just a great big _mess_. There is also some repetition, but I've tried to minimise it. Square brackets indicate bits of detail or dialogue that I wasn't sure about using but kept anyway as inspiration or simply a starting point from which to work out what _would_ work.

Because it's been asked: No, this isn't permission for anyone else to write the rest of my story. Sorry.

I may still write some of this someday; short stories that would have been part of these chapters or one-shots set in this universe – maybe the family's future after the coronation, bits of Selena or Lilith's lives, or something else. I hope so.

So, without further ado, here is the outline-summary-big mess of notes for the rest of _Crowning Tristan_:

* * *

Act Four: Mount Huon

(summary)

Act Four is about Tristan, Yvaine, and Dunstan trying to settle into their new lives, and Una trying to fit back into her old one. It covers the longest stretch of time (for the characters), starting with the family's arrival at Mount Huon.

The grand presentation that Una was so worked up about actually goes fairly well, although Tristan spends most of it shaking with nervous. After a long and colourful parade-like journey up to the top of the city, the family emerges on 'the Grand Platform' (a temporary placeholder name I never found a good alternative for) – a large open space where all the city's remaining nobles and courtiers and whatnot have gathered to greet their new king, whom they assume is Septimus. A huge crowd of everyday people have followed the carriage and coffin-on-a-wagon up the slopes, and when Una steps out, she gets a huge cheer from her people. She makes her speech, twisting the truth as they agreed and making Tristan sound like perfect king material without ever actually lying. Then Tristan, who is trying really, _really_ hard not to have a panic attack, steps up to the podium and gives his own well-prepared speech, which seems to get approval and after which he steps back, sweating. Yvaine and Dunstan stand right beside him, comforting and whispering that he did very well.

With Tristan's claim staked, at least legally, they move into the palace. A massive ball is thrown to celebrate their return, and then they are all thrown into the chaos of palace life: Una charges in, walking over people as she updates herself on everything she needs to know and arranges for tutors to give Tristan a crash course in being king, all the while making a display of discussing issues with her son to make it clear that he is 'in charge'. These intensive lessons would be a way to insert any relevant bits of history or economics or whatever else the plot and subplots require into prose, one of which would be the widespread black market for magic.

Septimus is given a proper funeral in the lesser tomb buried in the rock of the mountain ('lesser', as in, for defeated princes, not the ones who live to become kings).

The first official decision Tristan makes on his own, without Una's prompting, comes maybe two chapters in and is about the guards he promised to send to Wall. This works out just fine, and along with a formal letter to the village council (which he doesn't sign with his own name, just his title), he writes to his friend Frank as promised. Frank writes back, and their letters, though infrequent, pop up every so often throughout the chapters.

The bulk of this section is, of course, concerned with the growth of the characters and their relationships with each other. From start to finish, Tristan's knowledge and confidence grow, though he often finds himself overwhelmed with responsibility and fear. He turns to Yvaine and Dunstan for comfort and to his mother for guidance.

Una discovers that it's not as easy as she'd imagined to go back to being a princess. Things have changed, and _she_ has changed, too. Mostly she spends her time trying to update herself, take control of the court, and guide Tristan. She turns to Dunstan for an understanding ear, as well as an old friend she once knew.

Yvaine finds all this exciting for a while, then gets irritated by the stuffy manners and piles of useless work. She eventually finds herself getting angry with unjust things and strives to do something about it. She's pretty useless with paperwork, but she can deal with people, and can pass judgements quite easily. She gets annoyed with Una for the restrictions she puts on them and with Tristan for his tentativeness, but tolerates both. She also keeps trying to talk to her mother and sisters almost every night, but makes little progress; the Moon is childishly refusing to speak with her, and few of the stars are willing to get in trouble for speaking to their sister without permission.

Dunstan, poor man, is quietly drowning. He doesn't have the workload the others do (though he does seek ways to help where he can, usually by researching in the library), and is torn between feeling out of place, useless, bored, and trying to keep his family from driving themselves mad – he gives support when he doesn't feel supported, a silent, solid presence. He's very proud of Tristan, and worried for him. He's getting to know Yvaine and appreciating her liveliness – there are a few scenes between them, just chatting and filling subplots. He's getting to know Una on a quieter level, and they're becoming very fond of each other. He quietly insists that the four of them spend time together every evening, and lot of the actual scenes in this act are set in those times, when two, three, or four of them are talking about things that are going on or going wrong.

The climax of this act comes when Una gives Tristan another of her many semi-surprise tests (as in, she prepares him but wants to see what choices he'll make without depending on her), and has several prisoners with varyingly serious offenses brought to him for sentencing. She stands with him the entire time so he can ask for advice, but the pivotal point here is that when he makes a decision she doesn't approve of – one more lenient and unconventional than she'd like – he stands up to her, refusing to take her harsher (but safer) suggestion. In other words, at this point he has gained the confidence to make choices without relying on his mother. (Despite the clash, she does take this well, once she gets over it.)

The act ends with Tristan feeling he _can_ do this and agreeing to be crowned. Either this choice will be dramatic, the same way the Arden scene was, or it comes as a slow realisation that at this point is simply stated.

* * *

(details)

The presentation was a big, dramatic, and utterly impossible-to-write scene that was in my head from the very beginning. It starts with the family setting out from their last inn at the head of a small parade, the carriage and coffin covered in cloth and ribbons – royal blue, pale blue, white, gold, and (on the coffin only) black. Because blue is the royal colour, Una dresses them all in it, making a very strong visual statement; she and Yvaine in deep blue dresses, Tristan and Dunstan in their best suits with wide blue sashes and sapphire tie pins. Una wears gold jewellery, but Yvaine refuses to put anything even remotely chain-like around her wrists, so only wears a thin necklace. (Possibly: Tristan was supposed to wear a cravat, but kept nervously worrying it until Una relented, saying that a more relaxed collar would be fine as long as he maintained an air of confidence: "The king is in command even if he wears a dressing gown.")

Messengers run ahead to alert trumpeters that most of the city's population are up and in the streets when the 'new' royal family drives through, heading up the spiralling road to the palace. The carriage is first, either with everyone sitting in it or with its roof emptied of luggage so Yvaine and Una can sit on it like Arabic princesses (on pillows, all of which are kept from falling off by the rail meant to hold luggage in place) while Tristan and Dunstan sit on the driver's bench, not actually driving, as a soldier leads the horses from in front. Una sits directly behind Tristan, keeping one hand on his shoulder and talking, pointing things out to him. This all gives the impression of regal ladies and gentlemen arriving in grand style, and of Tristan as a confidant young man who has his mother's full support.

The polished coffin follows the carriage, the massive "7" freshly painted and impossible to miss, ensuring that everyone knows Septimus is dead, while the bright colours of the ribbons make it clear that there are royals arriving victoriously.

Meanwhile, Tristan's getting nervous, and depending on whether it feels in-character I might have had him say things like, "I can't do this, Father." To which Dunstan would reply, "Yes, you can. You've practiced this speech twenty times," et cetera, et cetera. Una has written the speeches for herself and Tristan to make when they arrive, with room for adjustment at the time if necessary.

Once up on the 'stage' (the 'Grand Platform'), Una steps out and smiles warmly as the crowd's cheers swell in enthusiastic greeting. The nobles and advisors who have hurriedly gathered expected to meet the surviving prince, and instead get a long-lost princess and a coffin. Older men who recognise her are genuinely pleased, as Una was well liked (at least in comparison to her brothers). She nods to them and turns to the carriage door, where Tristan steps out, and they walk together towards some sort of podium; Yvaine and Dunstan follow. Tristan walks – as ordered – exactly in step beside her. He says nothing as Una greets people she knew and those she doesn't, and then she turns to address the crowd.

Her speech briefly describes her capture and enslavement, and is probably worded to emphasise that she now knows what it's like to be "one of them" (that is, 'normal' people) as well as royalty, and then telling the lie about going to live in England to protect her son. She gives Tristan a grand introduction, using his heroics to wind up the crowd so there and there are cheers even before they 'meet' him. Tristan looks out at the crowd – there are so many that he can't see particular faces. That helps his nerves.

Tristan's first words are about how it wouldn't be fair not to say that Prince Septimus deserves credit, too, because they wouldn't have survived without him. The edited version of truth they're presenting is that Prince Septimus killed one witch and distracted the others (perhaps linking Una's freedom directly to Empusa's death), allowing his mother to escape and Tristan to attack – this kind of humbleness is so different from the other princes, including Primus, that it wins some extra favour. He talks a bit longer than Una because it's very important that he doesn't come across as his mother's pawn, then introduces his bride-to-be, the star Yvaine (who from here on is titled "Lady"). As predicted, this only makes him appear better, more so when he insists that she deserves credit for the final destruction of the Lilim witches with her magic. (This is a part of the speech Yvaine insisted on, since it will give everyone the very clear message of, "Don't mess with me, I can defend myself," even if she can't or wouldn't, since she's still really worried about that being common knowledge. Her bodyguards – the fledgling 'Star Guard' – are standing very close nearby.)

Anyway, that ends that scene, and it seems that this part of Tristan's initiation has gone as well as it possibly can. There are always exceptions, but the informants Una sends out to suss out the mood and real (not shouted) opinions of the people (because she never lets her guard down for a _moment_) return and say that while the elite aren't exactly thrilled by this wide-eyed kid taking power when they expected to get, at the very least, the well-trained and confidant Primus, they're not going to do anything unless Tristan proves himself incapable. The everyday people, on the other hand, seemed thrilled by the surprise, and are whisperingly optimistic that maybe things will be better under this new kind of king.

As a side note, I don't picture Stormhold as being a miserable place for most people to live regardless of class, but no matter what sort of government humans live under, everyone seems to find something to complain about, so why should these people be any different? Also, I imagine that the people of Stormhold generally appreciate cunning, but don't necessarily like the murder – though they are used to it (maybe like a twisted reflection of the Wall villagers). Perhaps the Mt Huon crowd are less excitable than their country counterparts, and therefore not so worked up over rumours.

A point relevant for later on is that soldiers like Oltran and Corvin and so on are country men – not like the stiff soldiers Septimus had with him, who were all the city men from noble families, while men who enlist from the country generally get assigned to the country, and the uniforms are a bit different, so they are treated with less respect. Tristan's favour for country soldiers could turn this snobbery on its ear, whether that's good or bad.

* * *

From here on, Dunstan also gets referred to by the respectful "Sir" by everyone who talks to him, though Una says that either as her consort (which he isn't, really) or as Tristan's father he should be called "Lord". He doesn't make much fuss about it, but Una does, which embarrasses him.

Something to note is that Dunstan looks very English – his haircut, for one thing, and he seems to prefer wearing English clothes even in the coronation scene, so it's probably obvious to others that he's not from Stormhold. I would think this is a choice he makes consciously, not because he wants the attention – far from it – but because he doesn't want to just toss aside his past; he _is_ English, and that's important to him.

* * *

They move into the palace. From what I can make out from the DVD, the royal tower (which I was going to call "The Tower", "The Royal Tower", or maybe "The Tower of Stormhold", but never decided) has eight levels, not including the king's chamber up top. I decided those eight levels are full of bedrooms for the princes and princesses, and all the other rooms in the palace – official halls, meeting places, whatever – are in walls of the vast circular 'stadium' where the coronation takes place, and in adjoining buildings.

For a while I played with the idea of the centre of that tower being hollow, with a huge empty shaft in which there is some sort of magical 'elevator' system (since I wanted more active use of magic in the story, and who wants to climb nine stories before bed, anyway?). I also toyed with the idea of having something like a set of magic carpets or small flat platforms sitting at the bottom of the shaft, which one can simply step onto and float up to the level of choice, where they get off onto a small balcony before going into the normal hallways. Yvaine, I'm sure, would _love_ living in such a high tower, and on a mountaintop, no less.

Immediately after the speech, they each get rooms. As he's not king yet, Tristan is given one of the prince's rooms (Quartus', I suppose, as the others haven't been dead long enough for their things to be moved out and everything cleaned), as do Dunstan and Yvaine (Quintus' and Sextus'), and Una gets her own old room back. There would be a bit of awkwardness if Dunstan has to ask for his own room, if someone expects him to share Una's. Yvaine is annoyed because she wanted to share Tristan's room. (Mererid once described Yvaine as having an "easy and almost innocent sensuality", in the context of Yvaine being "completely enamoured of sweets", both of which are descriptions that I think are utterly perfect for her, and had planned to use around here.)

Una re-entering her old room would be a quiet scene: she finds that her things have been kept (stored, probably, not left sitting around), and she wonders if her father could have been that sentimental, or if maybe it was Primus, or one of the others; all her brothers liked her. She has a moment of nostalgic joy when she finds an china doll in a blue dress, with a matching, tattered, girl-sized hair ribbon tied around its wrist (if you've read _A Day With His Heirs_, you'll know where this comes from). She would also indulge greatly in material comforts, like baths and fine clothes, soft slippers and so on; "I haven't had this since I was a girl".

* * *

The huge ball thrown to celebrate the family's return was rather spontaneous; no one, including Una, said anything or told people to arrange it – the assorted nobles and servants just sort of assumed, since they didn't think such a grand occasion would be complete without a ball. I'm not sure what time the family would have actually arrived at the palace (how long do you think it'd take to drive around what looks like ten circles of a Minas-Tirith-inspired mountain city?), but I'm going on the assumption that there was a little time to spare before an evening/night-time celebration. The poor kitchen cooks would still be frantic, trying to prepare food in time, and Una finds a minute to assure them that there's no need for a seven course dinner; a heaped banquet table will do. As we expect, Una expertly directs the servants, though there are a few stumbles when her knowledge of the household is twenty years out of date (she habitually asks for a long-dead or retired housekeeper by name). Musicians are hurried in and nobles arrive as fast as they can.

Because this is a ball at the highest level of formality, none of the clothes the family were wearing are good enough by Una's standards. She ransacks the wardrobes of her brothers and digs her own old things and her mother's out of storage – most of which don't fit her and have to go to Yvaine. It's another level of chaos that I was quite tempted to leave out, particularly since it would mean finding things grand enough for Tristan and Dunstan that don't have numbers embroidered all over them.

Tristan is still on edge, but Dunstan keeps a level head and calms him down, fixing his cravat and all that. Una pops into the room for a minute to say that, after talking to her informants, she thinks it would be best if Tristan could start building his reputation right now, which means spending a lot of time mingling with both the rich and the middle class people (though the latter will be celebrating in their own homes, in the street, or at the public open spaces, while only the snobby nobility attend the ball in the palace).

A silly moment: Walking the corridors before the main party, Yvaine overhears two rich women wailing because there hasn't been time to have new outfits made, and what will society think if they come to the prince's welcoming feast in "those old rags"? Yvaine dryly asks what does it matter, if the prince and princess haven't been here in the last twenty years and couldn't tell anyway? The noblewomen don't answer, just gasp – "the star!" – and bow. Yvaine, irritated, walks off.

The centre point of the party is in a ballroom with an orchestra, thrones, and a dance floor. Thrones are the most difficult, as the king's throne is on a dais raised off the floor, with the queen's (occupied by Una) just a little lower. Beside them are placed two grand-looking chairs for Yvaine and Dunstan. None are particularly comfortable.

Tristan finds himself sitting in the centre of the room, dressed in clothes so fine he keeps slipping, so expensive he fears eating, with a heavy circlet jammed onto his head, and clumsy rings on his fingers. He faces small mountains of food and a ballroom full of rich, gawking people. He tries to mingle, but really spends most of the party sitting there trying to look confidant. He actually succeeds out of nervousness, and Yvaine makes a point of loosening him up with wisecracks. The people see a handsome, laughing couple, and at this point that's all they need.

Yvaine, when sitting, looks very serene and elegant in Una's (or Una's mother's?) borrowed gown. Una is on Tristan's other side, totally in her element. Dunstan is just beyond her, and father and son share glances every so often.

This is a chance I'd probably take to make Tristan and Yvaine to dance together, which they would enjoy as long as he isn't too nervous. If so, Dunstan, returning from getting a drink, sees them and blinks, looking amused: "Tristan can _dance_," he said, blinking. "Tristan can dance. Never thought I'd see that happen." He chuckled.

He and Una talk a lot; she's finally relaxing.

Perhaps Tristan has a bit too much wine in an attempt to calm down, and ends up with an awful headache. No stereotypical drunken screwups (too cliché, and too out-of-character), but maybe some grand romantic gestures, as we saw the _last_ time he was drunk. Maybe not, though; probably not. I don't have the heart to really embarrass him!

In any case, the party ends absurdly late, and the exhausted family slink off to bed.

* * *

Tristan goes to his room – getting a bit lost along the way – and falls straight to sleep in the huge bed. He dreams of standing in the circle of a massive crown (but not tight, like in the previous dream sequence).

The next day, he wakes up and looks around the massive, ornate bedroom that absolutely _does not_ suit him. He was woken by a cautious and nervous servant (a boy, about thirteen), who has been sent to find him by Una, who wastes no time and is already up. He tells Tristan that Una is already meeting with her officials.

Tristan is nice to him and says to tell his mother he's on his way. The boy scampers off and Tristan has barely pulled his clothes on when more servants come in and, unasked, prepare a bath – apparently his uncles bathed every day. He comes from a relatively poor village and isn't accustomed to that. Apparently his uncles weren't big on modesty either, because he has to actually order them out so he can bathe in private. (Tristan feels a bit overrun by the idea of servants.) (I like the idea that in this massive stone palace, the baths are dug into the floor and tiled like swimming pools rather than being tin tubs, but that's a minor detail.)

When he's in the water (and hurrying as much as he can for Una's sake, while feeling guilty about wasting so much hot water), the door opens again and he spins around, either in surprise or irritation–

To see Yvaine standing there, snickering. He sighs, relieved, and complains about the servants. She grins and says they're all waiting outside, afraid they've done something wrong. She had to simply bull her way in.

Tristan says, "I don't think my family treated them very well." (Might be too inane a statement, considering, you know, their habit of murdering each other, but something along those lines.)

Tristan gets out – Yvaine throws the towel at him – and dresses. When leaving the room, he makes a point of thanking them and saying that they don't need to wait like that for him. This could endear him to the household staff, which (as most people except the rich employers know) is probably one of the best recommendations he could get.

Over the next few weeks, he and Dunstan have a strange time getting used to this total luxury. So does Yvaine, in a different way; for her it's more the customs and such than services. She will be a bit less than polite when annoyed, but she won't have the awkwardness of men who are used to doing everything themselves.

* * *

Tristan joins Una in a stately meeting room; there are two large chairs at the head of the table, and the other men sit around it. Tristan is introduced to everyone important while Una meets many old 'friends'.

I've vaguely assumed that there are a number of high-ranking advisors who are currently running the country - Primus, at least, isn't likely to have left the city without someone to watch over it. On the other hand, I didn't get the impression that any of the princes spent much time actually governing anything since their father became ill, but that's something of a side matter.

Una isn't about to rush her son into the madness. She outlines her plans for the next month or two (until the coronation). She tells ministers / new bishop / et cetera more truth than was in the announcement – that Tristan has practically no training, because she never expected him to rule and thus avoided teaching him specifics. She's been speaking with all these men individually, evaluating them and starting to update herself on the last twenty years of changes, and tells them her son will need tutors in every major field while she runs things. However, she insists he be present for every decision so she can talk him through her reasons and illustrate what kind of things he'll actually be doing. This is rather tedious for the officials/advisors, but Una has a habit of walking over people to get things done her way. Tristan spends this meeting feeling like a puppet on display.

Also at this meeting I was thinking of setting up more political situations and facts by having them discuss bits and pieces. (As I use the word "meetings", I think of a modern day corporate boardroom, which is not necessarily good. I'm not sure how else things would practically get done, though, and I never figured it out.)

By staying silent due to ignorance during meetings, Tristan will probably give everyone the image of a very quiet (thoughtful) man – compared to Secundus and Septimus, at least, and that's probably a very good thing.

Una to advisers: "Now, gentlemen, I am twenty years out of date and my son has no training whatsoever. Let's start with the basics."

Later, after some small fuss: "Gentlemen, we are not here to debate my son's qualifications. [We are here to help him.]"

Tristan also tells the advisors / bishop / et cetera (though Una wasn't exactly in agreement) that if Stormhold needs a stronger leader, he has every intention of stepping back and leaving it to his mother. This is quite a change from his uncles, and the advisors – on the surface, at least – accept it. There are some for whom the (bloody) tradition is more important, and some will have a grudge against Tristan right off simply for existing and ruining their plans to take power. Tristan isn't used to having people hate him (at least not for those reasons).

Una arranges for a crash course in Stormhold history, geography and politics.

* * *

Once out of the meeting, Una sweeps her son off to his room where a tailor is waiting to measure him for clothes. Again, Tristan feels like he's being dragged around like a puppet. Something to note is that his clothes in Wall never fit perfectly; his father's coat was always too big and so on. These new ones, of course, will.

An idea: Una, referring to how the tailors and other servants can be in the same room and yet never really interact: "They're what we call 'invisible people', Tristan. We don't exist to them any more than they do to us." (Rather silly a line, actually; it would have been rephrased and contextualised in prose.) Tristan might ask why no one changes it, to which Una would reply that everyone's comfortable the way it is: "It served me very well. If Sal was low on money she would rent out my services to anyone needing extra servants for a banquet or the like. Some of the higher ranking lords even knew me from the palace, but they never recognised me." (To this, Tristan would likely ask why she never said anything to the people she knew in hopes of being freed. Una might reply that she would be putting herself in the power of whatever lord bought her and so on, but an easier option would simply be that Sal magically bound her tongue so she couldn't.)

When they're done (also with taking Una's new measurements for her dresses), Una sends the tailor to Yvaine. Yvaine has no problem asking for things and wants clothes in white, blue and silver; the green travelling outfit she'd bought never really suited her like these night sky colours do, being earthy tones.

Yvaine has been having quite a day, too. She found herself being cornered by the heads of the sister- and brotherhoods of witches and warlocks, who are even more interested in stars than the rest of the people. They think she can to teach them new wonderful things like Selena did for their ancestors. They're disappointed when Yvaine says that she doesn't know anything about magical theory.

Just an idea, but maybe as Tristan has to learn a lot from his mother, Yvaine too could ask her family's help with this. Not that she would actually learn how to use magic, but there could be some mother-daughter / sister-sister talking, similar to the "lectures" Una gave Tristan – but it would have to wait until her family (Selena, at least) are willing to speak with her again, so it wouldn't fit here.

* * *

An idea I never decided whether or not to use:

The day is exhausting, and afterwards Tristan crawls into bed with a headache. Soon after, Yvaine comes in and climbs in, telling him to move over. She's been cold and lonely in her huge, empty room, and misses sleeping next to him (and she's talking about actually sleeping). Tristan worries that there might be a fuss, but Yvaine says that Una said it's all right as long as they're discreet. This startles Tristan – she's been talking to his _mother_ about them sleeping together?

Over the next few weeks, she does this a lot. Maybe one morning (quite a bit later), Dunstan comes in to wake them? (Though there is the issue of servants waking them, like that first morning, unless Tristan told them not to... but there are no alarm clocks in Stormhold... actually, there could be. Hm.)

Narrative if Dunstan does so: It would have been quite adorable if not far too intimate for him to see. At least they were dressed.

Tristan wakes and is embarrassed. Yvaine is not. ("At least he didn't tickle us.")

* * *

As Una promised, in direct contrast to what it was like while travelling, when they live in the palace the family do not have soldiers watching them all the time. In the tower, especially, even Yvaine can feel safe because the only entrance is from the lower palace levels, and they're guarded on all sides; she doesn't have to be followed everywhere.

* * *

All the furniture from Wall arrived with the family, and the staff, not having a clue what it was for, simply put it in Dunstan's room. All of it.

When he has breathing time, Tristan unpacks his old knick-knacks, but doesn't know where to put them in this elegant room as they seem so out of place.

* * *

Somewhere in the palace, I'm sure there are portraits of all Una's brothers, her father, probably her mother, and many other ancestors. At least one scene would involve her gazing at them, remembering, and talking to either Tristan or Dunstan (or possibly Yvaine, if the circumstances were right) about them.

* * *

The tomb scene when Septimus is buried would be very dark; lots and lots and _lots_ of murdered great-uncles – however, I never decided if I was going to actually include it, given that the mountain would probably run out of space within a few generations. On the other hand, in the book the ghosts lamented that none of them were buried in "the family tombs", which implies that maybe they expected it. But on the assumption that I kept the scene:

This might be a chance for Una to angst a bit about her family's less-than-noble legacy; perhaps she wouldn't really want Tristan and Dunstan to see it. She would also think about what it would be like to be buried there herself. Tristan would probably be half-sick at the number of headstones / coffins / whatever in that tomb, while Yvaine simply hates being underground, maybe feeling claustrophobic.

* * *

The letters to Wall, and the 'Wall Guard':

In Stormhold it is known that Tristan once lived in Wall. How much affect that has on his actions and how it's interpreted by the difficult 'important people', I never did work out.

These scenes might very well be done mostly, if not entirely, in document form, showing contrasts between the formal letter to the village council and Tristan's letter to his friend Frank, or possibly in the point of view of the villagers themselves, as the 'king's' letter is read out loud – or maybe as the reply letters are written and sent back.

The other option was to show a scene at Wall where the Stormhold soldiers arrive and deliver the letters: Mr Edwards, would probably feel rather redundant in the face of these young, armed soldiers, but I can imagine the village council (especially Humphrey's father) not being too trusting of these strangers and keeping the village roster up anyway, and so inadvertently giving a chance for people from Wall to talk to these apparently normal people from the other side – after all, it's hard to stand on opposite sides of a big hold in a stone wall for hours on end without at least being _curious_ about the people nearby. Also, I can imagine Tristan and Una picking young and chatty men and encouraging them to talk to the villagers in hope of establishing a friendly rapport.

Because Tristan also promised magical protection, he sends two magicians to guard the wall; a young warlock and his fussy mother, who have the ability and authority to block the passage of anyone from Stormhold that the non-magical guards can't. The witch and warlock would similarly be encouraged to show of harmless enchantments and try to break down the barriers of fear that keep the village of Wall secluded.

This works, to a degree: the village guards – particularly the younger men (led by Frank) start talking to the warlock and soldiers and form friendships. No one ever actually crosses the wall, but they sit on opposite sides of the gap and chat. When word of this gets through to Wall village, it probably outrages (and/or frightens) stiff-shirt men like Mr Banks and Mr Comfrey, which would be an amusing little scene to write.

* * *

Tristan's lessons:

These scenes would be filled with bits and pieces of history, depending on whatever is relevant for the chapter in question. Things like treaties formed by specific kings or why the Stormhold crest has a boar and a griffin on it (you can see them clearly in the _Stardust Visual Companion_), or answers to questions such as _why_ the Lilim witches needed special (black glass?) knives to cut out Yvaine's heart. Septimus was certainly never on a quest for a special knife, and seemed to think a normal dagger would do just fine – why? Where the glass knives good for retaining as much starlight as possible? Or would normal knives somehow not work, meaning Septimus never had a chance? Fun questions. If anyone has an answer, I'd love to hear it.

Tristan learns details of Stormhold's history and geography, as well as cultural traditions and practicalities like finances and so on. One of these tutors may be the new bishop. In personality, they vary: Some will be patient with him, some will like him, and others will not. He has to treat them as respected subordinates without letting the difficult ones walk over him. At least one of these tutors, or advisors / officials, would have to become a proper minor character, as their overall role is too important to be wallpaper. At least one would actively dislike Tristan for some reason, and some will actively plot against him and there will be a few subplots about that.

Yvaine insists on joining them. The staff and officials learn early on that Yvaine has no intention of being a pretty-face stay-home-and-knit queen; she wants to learn and be involved. (She probably would not need geography lessons, and might be able to correct some historical points if she'd happened to be watching a particular battle or something a few centuries back.)

As he learns, Tristan slowly takes on more and more work from Una. He has to deal with economic, legal, and diplomatic issues, which means I have to find situations for all of them – there will be ambassadors and so on.

It would probably be appreciated that, unlike some princes – Tertius, for instance – Tristan is careful with money. He probably doesn't _know_ how to be extravagant, but certainly does know what it's like to not be able to have everything. The sight of the treasury would probably awe him, though I can see him buying things for his family more easily when he has the chance.

* * *

At some point, probably very early on, they have the witches' palace at Carnadine torn down or burned. The residual magic there, or the magical items/potions/whatnot that they left behind are much too dangerous to be left out in the open now that people know where to find it and/or it's abandoned.

Yvaine may become something of a celebrity, and if so, I can imagine people going to her crater just to gawp – it could probably be played up in a very amusing little tourist-attraction sort of way.

However, at some point, Yvaine is attacked – maybe while in the market. It's nothing major, and easily dealt with by guards – and, to their surprise, quite a few common people who are outraged by the greedy act against a symbol of their childhood fairytale – but it shakes her.

There would also be a scare when somebody (and Somebody Important, most likely) starts asking detailed questions about the lie that Una created – that Tristan had grown up in Stormhold. Maybe someone does some checking, or Tristan fumbles a simple answer, but that lie comes back to haunt them. Perhaps Tristan or Dunstan (or Yvaine?) assert themselves and insists on the truth, but most likely not. They're never going to be able to be entirely honest again.

* * *

Either in this act or in the next one, Yvaine (or Tristan) accidentally spills the immortality secret to Una and Dunstan; says something aloud that makes them ask, and then confesses. It's a tough issue because it's so absurd (and sappy, though sweetly sappy), but not something I can see them hiding forever – not from his parents.

* * *

Yvaine would probably enjoy going riding fairly often. Considering what Primus boasted about his father's mastery of beasts, I imagine the palace has a large array of horses and carriages and other mounts.

On a similar note, why shouldn't flying be a normal way for the rich to travel? The royal family may well have their own flying ship, like the _Caspartine_, though then there is the question of why the princes didn't use it in their search. Maybe it was too hard to land, or just too conspicuous.

* * *

A rather big issue for the later part of this act is the black market:

Back in Act Three, after their run-in with Shakespeare, Una talked eagerly about wanting to uproot the vast black market in Stormhold – should she manage, things like the enslaving silver chains would be largely gone and rid of. The black market, quite obviously, gets in the way of economics and can sometimes cause major problems – probably one of them would flare up to start off this sub-plot. About half the dealers in Market Town, like Sal, trade in illegal magical goods, and Una's twenty-ish years of observation have given her a lot of inside details that she could use to bring it down.

Una is so determined because she has seen the ugliest side of the underworld and has been totally repulsed. If she never had the chance to get to know any of the involved people personally – if Sal dragged her from one to the other too fast, never letting her out of sight or chain length, she would have only ever seen Sal's muddy personality, and when she saw her people suffering as a result, it hardened her. She would have found refuge in friendships with Hatha and other low-class but honest sorts. Therefore she has a hatred of the criminal underworld and a fierce desire to uproot the whole thing, which Tristan would agree with – in _theory_. Una stands by the laws she thinks are right at all costs, while Tristan feels sorry for individual people. That doesn't mean he doesn't agree – besides which, a king could hardly argue to let illegal trade continue – but he wouldn't have her kind of ferocity.

The central character issue of this sub-plot is that Una goes ahead and starts uprooting the black market without telling ("troubling") Tristan – perhaps she deliberately avoids letting him know about it. When he finds out he's upset, though he can't put a finger on why. It's not that he disagrees ethically, or that he hasn't been dealing with financial problems resulting from it. He's not really afraid for the safety of Captain Shakespeare and crew, nor does he feel like she's pulled the rug out from under him (he doesn't feel in possession of the job yet anyway), but he _does_ feel a bit betrayed. Hurt, even – perhaps more by the fact that she didn't tell them than any actual action. Like she didn't trust him. Maybe she doesn't.

He finds out either in a group meeting (which includes Una), or while talking one-on-one to some official, at which point he smiles tightly and walks off to look for her. He says, "Mother, can we talk? _Now_?"

Their clash would be her near-fanaticism versus his non-aggressive approach on a personal level. Not a fight, but a _clash_. They don't understand each other.

Dunstan would have an interesting take on this; he's had no great experience with criminals nor close observation of strict laws – in Wall, everything was done on a person-to-person level, and the large national laws were observed in a distant sort of way. In theory he agrees with Una, but he's the moral voice that Tristan was raised on, so his advice would always boil down to "do what you think is _right_".

Yvaine, on the other hand, has seen many horrible things that criminals have done, but has no view of them as individuals; she sees the acts, not the idea of a person who is bad or good. She would probably agree with Una when the issue is keeping someone from causing more harm (but then, so would Tristan), but not necessarily in other cases.

How it would work out, I'm not sure.

More on character interaction:

Una would probably end up feeling rather ganged up on every time there are clashes, and while she's got the scholars and advisors agreeing with her Law Is Right view, she quietly longs to feel like a part of her own family; there is a closeness between the other three that she is sometimes left out of. Una seems like the type who would be a willing loner – not deliberately excluded, but set apart and silently desperate to belong.

Sometimes Una's mask cracks and either she becomes quietly miserable or cries in secret, though sometimes someone finds her. Yvaine will be her first confidant, and later on it'll be the key by which she grows closer to Dunstan.

At some point there is a spat of some sort between Yvaine and Una – Una, feeling wronged, is stubbornly waiting for the apology she feels she deserves. Yvaine, however, refuses to apologise because she didn't _mean_ to do anything, so why should she apologise? Tristan or Dunstan, playing mediator, tell her that it's not an apology for herself that Una wants, but a statement of regret that it happened. Yvaine is equally stubborn; she refuses to go crawling and beg forgiveness from her _own_ mother (no, actually, she likes Una _better_ than her own mother, but the point stands), so she isn't about to do so for Una. The actual issue doesn't matter, and the resolution comes easily enough, but I very much want these characters to be as multidimensional as possible, and this is something I can see happening.

* * *

Dunstan, as said, spends most of this act feeling like he's quietly drowning. With Una, Tristan, and Yvaine largely busy all day, Dunstan finds himself alone, feeling rather useless. He sorts all the luggage from Wall and gets help for arranging or storing it (there'll be empty rooms around for that) from servants, some of whom he can talk comfortably to, and explores the library. Being an intellectual sort, this would probably delight him, and he could do a lot of study in there. But he gently insists that the four of them have dinner together every night (in a private dining room, so very familyish), and it becomes a pleasant thing to look forward to.

Dunstan is trying to find a place for himself; that's largely his issue here. He and Una have little time together as she's actually running the country, and he feels lost. He and Tristan talk about that at some point.

At the same time, I can see him politely but firmly refusing little offers that would absorb him more fully into Stormhold; he keeps his hair short in the English fashion and wears the best of his old clothes – then, when Una says he really needs to have more than two outfits, asks the tailors to copy the old patterns as closely as possible. This isn't rejection, exactly, but he can't change suddenly like Tristan can. He needs time and space, which there is plenty of, but change isn't easy, and as said, it's important for him to remember that he _is _English.

Dunstan will be the one Tristan turns to when he needs to talk – not necessarily get reassurance or help, but just to talk. He'd talk to Yvaine, too, and they take time every day just to sit together and relax. Una and Dunstan have something similar; Una needs to unwind in the presence of an equal and is happy to tell Dunstan anything he wants to know about her world. This strengthens their relationship, and they become solid, completely comfortable friends. Scene snippet:

She looked up, briefly, stopping at a random table to write something down. "Yes, Dunstan, what is it?"

"Midnight," he said.

Also, another, at some point, an echo of the movie prologue:

"What do you want of me?"

"Just your company. Someone to talk to."

This next bit of dialogue was originally written for Act One, when Una and Dunstan are talking on that first evening after the big scene with the Wall village council. I cut it because it seemed out of place and the scene was too long already. They are sitting in different chairs one evening, each drinking a glass of wine before going their separate ways to sleep, as has become their custom:

She tilted her head sideways and asked, "Do you think England and Stormhold should start formal talks someday? With your queen, I mean. Would she listen?"

He shook his head. "The world is more scientific now than it was when I sent that letter, and they didn't believe a word of it then. You'd have to prove you have a magical world here, and there's no telling how much of a threat they'd see in that. Better that they remain apart."

"So you think we should seal the wall?"

Shrugging, he rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. But I trust that word of Stormhold won't leave the village; we've kept the secret for hundreds of years, and everyone understands that outsiders would never accept it."

* * *

Also, it always bothered me that Una wrote a letter to Tristan but not to Dunstan. The practical but plot-less explanation I came up with is that Sal didn't give her enough paper, but if that's not the case – could it be that she was afraid to write to him, for some reason? A possible but very far-fetched idea is that she didn't want him to have a letter on him because she worried that her brothers somehow would find out what happened and go to Wall to kill the baby. Magic doesn't work on the other side, but their swords would. And that would also be a reason for not signing the letter.

In any case, at some point Dunstan would ask about it, and Una would have to answer some uncomfortable questions.

* * *

Some more (semi-random) bits about Yvaine:

She would know perfectly well that being a queen means having quite a few responsibilities, but the amount of time required – especially in comparison to her life in the sky, where she was utterly free to do as she pleased every minute of the day – would surprise and irritate her. In reference to lessons, I can see her using the phrase "queen training" with no regard for how polite it seems to others. That's half of why she's such a fun character, after all.

At times she seems wise 'beyond her years' (though considering how old she _actually_ is, that's not really a good phrase to use), and other times, like a child. This contrast is something I'd have liked to play with, such as in scenes like this:

During the first days, she walks by a stone-faced soldier standing absolutely still, guarding a particular corridor. She pauses, frowns, and leans over to examine his face – then pokes him. "You are _alive_, aren't you?"

"Yvaine!" (If that's a truly horrified-sounding exclamation, it'll probably be Una saying it, or maybe Dunstan. Or a minor character, depending on the scene setting.) Yvaine would be embarrassed, I think.

She, more than any of the others, would really need to make friends beyond their little circle of four. She has her Star Guard soldiers – Corvin, I'm sure, would be more than glad to keep her company, too much so – but I can imagine that she would very quickly befriend a random nobleman's daughter, and every maid who tends to her room. The noble-class girl is one I wanted to develop into a proper minor character too; she'd be a woman who is not particularly beautiful, especially in comparison to Yvaine, and largely ignored by the upper class until they became friends – the kind everyone thinks will become a spinster. A shy girl, always alone, that Yvaine felt sorry for at a gathering and started talking to. Painfully shy. Maybe the daughter of a minister or a tutor, which would make it easier for them to meet.

Yvaine might want to continue her piano lessons, as Shakespeare would hardly have had time to teach her much more than basic chords. When getting frustrated and impatient with exercises, or is interrupted, she bangs the keys hard.

Generally, she would care very little about material things, but I decided early on that at some point there would be a scene in her room where she accidentally (perhaps because she's flinging her arms about angrily) knocks the little crystal cat from wherever it sits, and it shatters on the floor; that would upset her terribly.

Yvaine makes a habit of sitting outside for a few hours every night so her sisters or mother can talk to her if they want to. She keeps trying, but as they haven't managed to convince her to leave, even Selena isn't talking – Celeste might have tried, but the Moon probably caught her trying and told her off. At some point one or more of them tentatively start conversation, and Yvaine introduces Tristan to some of her other sisters and they talk about some of the more surreal aspects of life in the sky.

* * *

Though nothing comes of it in this act, there are scattered moments and reflection scenes in which Yvaine worries about Tristan's possible immortality. Selena's warnings about "it always starts well" get to her, and an offhand comment about their children someday taking over the throne start her thinking, and seeds of doubt begin to gnaw at her. She feels guilty for doubting Tristan's word, afraid that Selena and her mother are right, determined not to go running home to a gloating mother and so on. She tries to put it out of her mind, convince herself, whatever, and puts off talking to him about it for whatever reasons she can justify.

She realizes he's already carrying a very heavy burden in terms of having to take on his responsibilities as king. I could see her wrestling with herself over this, knowing that she has to tell him but concerned about the stress he's already under, as well as dealing with the pressure that Selena is putting on her

Also, stars – being immortals – might be in the habit of living in the moment, not generally worrying about the past or future (with a multi-million year lifespan, it seems plausible), and thus I might be able to justify her "forgetting" on a more day-to-day basis until something reminds her, so she could go through most of a day without being reminded and remain her usual self.

At one point there is a dream sequence – nightmare, really – in which she sees Tristan as a very bitter old man.

* * *

In one chapter, Yvaine gets sick. Just a flu, but she's never been ill before. She was able to handle the broken leg pretty well because she knew exactly what the problem was, but illness is another matter.

Because she's complaining of nausea, Tristan says she shouldn't come to whatever event they had scheduled that day but stay 'home' (in her room) until she feels better. It's a mark of how bad she feels that she doesn't argue.

Some hours later, one of the housekeeper ladies comes to find Tristan because she's worried; the healer has been by, and Yvaine is complaining of symptoms far more intense than expected. Tristan leaves (the event) in his mother's capable hands and goes back. Outside Yvaine's door is her maid and a rather frazzled-looking healer, who say the lady has thrown them out. Tristan thanks them and knocks, opening the door.

Yvaine is inside, stumbling tiredly around the room in a foul mood. Her mood swings every which way, dramatically, from anger to misery. "I'm feeling really _horrible_, Tristan," she said, voice teary. "Really, _really_ bad. My head hurts and my stomach's twisted and I can't think or move or..."

Tristan, who's been sick before, tries to soothe her by saying, "I know how you feel."

"You _know_? How can you _know_ and be so calm about it? This is horrible and humiliating and– Oh _no_–"

She feels nauseous again, but never actually throws up. Somehow, that was even worse. Tristan hugs her, smoothing her hair and rubbing her back. She was shivery, and crying on and off – little, miserable sobs. He grabs an extra blanket/one of her warmer coats and wraps her in it, warming her tired body.

She's adamant that illness won't stop her living the day normally; she's strong, she can handle it. Meanwhile, she's sheet white and cold. Tristan talks her out of playing hero and into bed, drawing the heavy curtains for her. She relents and drifts off to sleep. He says there's really nothing they can do but wait it out (except maybe draw a hot bath), and the best way is to sleep it off.

Tristan kisses her forehead and tucks her in, wrapping the blankets more tightly. He quietly leaves and tells the servants that she's all right – she's not got some terrible incurable disease, she's just never been ill before, so everything seems worse to her. He adds that she apologises for shouting at them. Yvaine, of course, had done no such thing.

(I'd like to add that I wrote this particular scene sketch one day when I was really, _really_ sick. Yvaine was playing mouthpiece for me, but it actually turned out to be somewhat useable material, though I never made the necessary characterisation adjustments.)

* * *

Quite late in the act, some soldier or minister makes a stupid mistake with hurtful consequences, and Tristan gets really angry with him – "You _idiot_!" Like the scene on the cloud where he's snapping at Yvaine; I tend to write Tristan as being very quiet, tentative or reserved, but in the film he was eager, depressed, irritable, angry, enthusiastic, and _does_ lose his temper sometimes, all of which need to be shown or else his character would be flattened.

* * *

The climax of the act is when Una has Tristan sentence some prisoners. It's not usually the sort of thing the king does for any offenses short of treason (or attacks on his person), but it's meant as training, anyway. Una briefs him on the usual punishments for various crimes – all lengths of time in prison (dungeons). Tristan insists on seeing it, saying he can't send anyone there without knowing what it'll be like – the conditions in the dungeons are rather good, actually, clean and fairly warm, but it's tiny and cramped and not a place you'd want to be locked away in.

Una knows this will be hard for him, and that's why he has to do it. She sits or stands just behind him, as his advisor, keeping as quiet as possible. They are in a formal but not oversized room meant for the king to give audience to petitioners. Each prisoner is presented to the prince and his crimes are described by (the Minister of Justice? Or maybe a soldier). Tristan looks to each and asks them if it's true, and each man (in various ways) says yes. Tristan may ask them to add some add details.

Whether by chance or the good common sense of either Una or the Minister of Justice, two of them are sympathetic characters. The first man, however, very clearly is not. He murdered his wife, his brother, and possibly another woman who was found dead some months earlier. Tristan still has to steel himself to say it, but orders the man imprisoned – for life.

The next is also a murderer, who is very angry but very young, fourteen. Tristan feels the kid will grow up, but admits that for now he's dangerous, and has him sent to prison, but says they'll review him in a year.

The third man is a young father who stole food and money from passing traveller who, unfortunately, was rather well-connected. The man pleads that his business was ruined by a fire and that his wife and small son are starving. Some people watching from around the room are stone-faced, either because they think crime is crime, or because they're used to steeling themselves against this. Tristan just cannot send him to prison – he's not dangerous – but can't let him go, either – bad example. He thinks back to one of his tutors' recent complaints that they're having to spend extra money hiring workers for some building project, and decides that this man will spend a year working as a labourer under guard, and in the meantime they will send a little money to his wife every month – just enough to live on. The man is allowed to write his wife a letter. He looks worshipfully grateful.

Una doesn't approve, saying that they must send him to prison to prevent others from doing the same, but Tristan refuses; it's the first time he flatly overrules his mother. (Do note that she's being practical, not callous – she _has_ lived a poor life, and doesn't think this man a liar. She means exactly what she says – it's a bad example.)

The fourth man is also a thief, but had no need to steal; he did it because of greed. Tristan also sends him to work, as he's not dangerous, but with an extra guard to ensure he doesn't steal again, or escape. Tristan is very pleased to have come up with this idea for alternative punishment, and decides to use it as much as possible.

* * *

And that's more or less the end of Act Four. Encouraged, not only by this incident but everything else he's been through since arriving, he's feeling reasonably sure of himself, and now has enough grounding to know what the position of king will actually require of him. He feels he can do it, and plans for his coronation begin.


	17. Act Five & Epilogue

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

* * *

Act Five: Untitled

(summary)

Act Five is about Tristan reconciling his past and his future, bringing the villagers of Wall and the pirates into his new life, and preparing to be king. This is the time when all worries about _what might happen_ come to light. This act covers significantly less time than the last (maybe two or three weeks of Stormhold time), and involves a lot less politics – the biggest issues are the preparations for the wedding and coronation, and everyone's feelings regarding that.

I considered naming this act "Ceremonies", but it didn't fit with the place-names theme of previous acts. Originally, it was going to end on the night before the wedding and coronation, putting those two in a sixth act, but that would have made for two absurdly short acts with no more merit to the break than a big chapter finale, so I meshed them into one.

* * *

This act has much less structure than the last, and is mostly about explaining how the superstitious, semi-paranoid villagers of Wall as well as the entire criminal crew of the _Caspartine_ could have come to be sitting in front-row seats for the coronation, as well as tying off all the sub-plots I started in earlier parts of the story.

The first major plot point comes a little while after the end of the prisoner-sentencing sequence, when Tristan is more comfortable in his role. The issue of lightning piracy comes up, along with several economic issues, particularly about how much money is actually being lost to piracy as opposed to being generated by the state-owned harvesting ships. Tristan has also been doing some research on Captain Shakespeare, trying to find exactly what crimes he _is_ guilty of – and there quite are few, some of them surprising, but none of them cruel enough to change Tristan's mind about his conviction that the Captain is a good man. The short of it is, he decides he wants to offer Shakespeare a pardon on the condition that he work for the crown instead.

Una, as you might imagine, is not thrilled with this. She repeatedly cautions her son not to let his personal feelings get in the way of what is best for the country, but whether right or wrong, he's decided to do this. Officially, the pardon is granted on the grounds that the Captain saved his life and Yvaine's, and it is extended to the entire crew. Both the bride and groom insist that they come to the wedding/coronation, and dismiss the worries of their soldiers and the ministers. This seems, to be frank, rather unlikely (and I never did come up with a sub-plot that could flesh out the situation to make it more plausible), but it was in the movie, in canon, so I can get away with it.

As for the villagers of Wall, both Tristan and Dunstan want to invite them; these people have been their friends all their lives, and they miss them. If nothing else, Tristan wants Frank to be there, but he can't just swoop in and ask his friend over for the day – there would be too many consequences, both for Frank personally (because the village council would be angry) and regarding the chance for Tristan to ever reconcile his two homes.

This is where the sub-plot about letters and the Wall Guard from Act Four come in; the foundation for trust has been built, and the idea that the people on the other side might not be quite such a threat has been planted. Tristan can now play this as a diplomatic gesture (it _is_ something of an honour to be invited to the coronation of a king, even if he was the shopboy who scrubbed floors when you knew him), which is how he excuses it to any minister who frowns on the notion.

A formal letter is sent to Wall, and it does not outright say that Tristan is the crown prince, despite that being the expectation of any 'diplomatic gesture'. Instead it's a very fancy wedding invitation, with no titles, but has the names "Tristan Thorn" and "Yvaine Star" (as they couldn't very well write "Yvaine the Star") on it. The Wall council displays it in the village square and there are lots of discussions on the matter. By this time, the villagers in general are less afraid, and a large number of them, including all of Tristan and Dunstan's direct friends, cautiously accept and sign a reply.

When the time comes, of course, they need a way to _get_ there, and so Tristan asks Captain Shakespeare if he'd like to visit England. Of course, he very eagerly accepts, and the _Caspartine_ flies out to Market Town – but not over the wall, because there are many magical items on board that could be ruined. Shakespeare will absolutely _love_ being there, and I'll give him a little time to enjoy it. Tristan goes along, obviously, but I never decided whether or not to bring Dunstan; he probably would come, since it's not like he'd have a lot of work to do in the city. Dunstan meeting Shakespeare would be interesting.

It would probably be hard for Tristan to keep hiding the details of his new position from the villagers, given that he has much fancier clothes and bodyguards and whatnot now. I'm not sure at what point he'd want to tell them; he's not the dramatic type to want to make a grand entrance at the city, so he'd probably want tell them the first time they meet in person. However, there may be some reason or another to wait until they reach the city. I never decided which choice to go with, as I had ideas I liked for both.

Judging by the map in the _Visual Companion_, the journey from Market Town to Mount Huon would probably take about two days by air, give or take a bit if they stopped to harvest a lightning storm. Somewhere during this time, Tristan and Victoria talk, and those little scenes tie off their relationship as much as possible given her rather less-than-generous feelings towards him – particularly given that she's about to meet Yvaine.

Victoria and Yvaine never get along. Victoria is jealous of this woman for who, Tristan rejected her, and considering what she's been through, Yvaine isn't exactly inclined to be kind, either. Poor Tristan gets stuck in the middle.

If Tristan didn't tell the English folk about his mother's ancestry before, he does so when they arrive at the palace. The wedding and coronation are just under two days away, so there's a bit of time for these country farmers to take in the 'fairy land' and react in different ways – some with awe and eagerness, some with wary hesitance, some with panic and fear. Dunstan probably spends this time trying to reassure those people and talk with his old friends.

Hatha and her family are also invited to the ceremonies, and arrive just in time.

On the last day before the wedding and coronation, everyone is nervous, especially Tristan and Yvaine. When it comes to marrying her, Tristan is totally sure that it's the right thing to do, and it's the crown that scares him. In contrast, Yvaine isn't worried about things going terribly wrong for the country (she's seen so many such things and they all get resolved eventually), but doubts herself. Her fears about her future with Tristan and his immortality have been piling up for months and now wind her into a panic, and she knows she can't wait any longer to talk to him.

They talk. Unlike the day he first learned about it and blithely brushed off her fears with optimistic promises, this time he takes it more seriously. It's true that they can never know what's going to happen, and that he just doesn't have the perspective to understand what it's like to live forever. He can't imagine ever wanting to die and leave her, but says the same thing she once said to Selena; they know in advance, so it won't be the same as with her and Talmor. He's making a choice to accept everlasting life, and promises that he won't ever be so hypocritical as to resent _her_ for a choice that _he_ made. And if for some reason he does, someday, want to die, they'll find a way to part peacefully.

It's a very delicate scene, emotionally, and the climax of the romance subplot. I wanted to make sure that it would come across as a happily ever after without ignoring the fact that people don't stop growing and changing when they marry and ride off into the sunset, and it's important to know that if things don't work out, everyone's going to be okay anyway. I hoped to write it as a sweet scene with enough emotional resonance for real life to not feel like a fairytale. Rather daunting, that.

That was going to be the end of Act Five. Either just after Yvaine's confession scene or right at the beginning of the next chapter is a scene where she goes outside to talk to her mother and Selena, and can finally say, with confidence, that everything's going to be all right.

The wedding and coronation both take place on the summer solstice, and may involve magical rituals. The wedding is scheduled for dusk and the coronation for night-time, more or less directly after, so the day passes in an excited, frantic, crazy last-minute rush. I can see Shakespeare happily fussing over Yvaine's hair and clothes and maybe clashing with Una over it, on a domestic level, which would be quite fun.

The wedding is beautiful; it takes place in the same stadium-like courtyard that the coronation will be, except that the wide aisle leading to the royal platform has a long white carpet spread over it, down which Yvaine walks, glowing enough to make several people squint; she's so happy, there's no helping it. When the last vows are done, she shines so brightly that no one can see their kiss.

Then the coronation; because we already know this scene from the movie, it would be written more reflectively, looking back on the story and the now-filled gap between the end of the battle, and how they got to be where they are. That would be Tristan's running thought, probably – _How did I __get__ here?_ Yvaine sits beside him, now his wife, and on his other side his parents sit hand-in-hand, so _proud_ of him. In the crowd before him are the English friends he grew up with, the pirate friends he has since made, and all the people he is now responsible for. It's overwhelming, but has a sense of triumph to it.

The primary story ends at the same moment the movie does. There is an epilogue, which takes place at least a year later and reflects back on the changes since Tristan was crowned, and hints at the future: See the "Epilogue" section below.

* * *

(details)

Tristan's decision to offer Shakespeare and his crew a pardon might very well have been impulsive – something he does on his own and tells his family about later, meaning Una has no chance to stop him. She'd be worried and frustrated; "_Why_ did you _do_ that?"

Much as he learned from the pirates about why they steal lightning and sell it directly rather than through official channels (because they wouldn't make enough money otherwise, due to pay rates and taxes), so Tristan now learns the other side of the story; the big economic picture and why the government does what it does and taxes what it taxes. There is some room for leniency – some things that are there only to make money and which Tristan can lessen – but he has to admit that people in general would be better off if the trade of magical lightning was entirely controlled by the crown (if for no other reason than that it costs a fortune to employ Lightning Marshalls to police the skies).

There is, however, the more philosophical question of who the lightning actually 'belongs' to, and if a natural resource can really _belong_ to anyone.

In any case, Tristan's pardon for the _Caspartine_ crew offers them either just a job as harvesters for the crown, or as harvesters and marshals who would help patrol the sky – it depends on exactly how much Shakespeare values his reputation and if he can make himself seem more fearsome one way or another; being unpredictable is probably worrying, and suddenly working for the king is the last thing any of his enemies would expect. He might have less need for a fearsome reputation when he has the official backing of the king, but the two might not be mutually exclusive. I kind of like the idea that the Ruthless Captain Shakespeare helping Tristan only adds to his (both their!) mystique.

Tristan would be aware that he's asking the Captain to turn against his peers, but considering how he and his crew behaved when on the ship and at Mount Drummond, it's probably fair to say that all of Shakespeare's _real_ friends are already on his crew. He would also be a good judge of who else might be willing to give up piracy willingly rather than be imprisoned, if given the right offer. (Maybe. I see Tristan as very much the type who wants to solve the problem, not punish people, but there are practical limits to this flowers-and-butterflies sort of mentality.)

We don't see much of Bernard, but he is still with the crew (we do see him at the coronation). There may or may not be a way to show it, but Bernard would have told the pirates that he was Septimus' prisoner (and he was, more or less), which would make them more inclined to accept him into their crew – fellow outlaw and all. Also, I would think that Bernard was utterly ashamed of having been turned into a woman, and never told anyone.

* * *

Though I never came up with many details for actual scenes, there would need to be quite a bit of time spent showing how the villagers of Wall managed to go from centuries of avoiding the world on the other side of the wall to actually travelling within it to attend Tristan's coronation. How minor characters like Frank Monday and Mrs Harper deal with this would depend quite a bit on how they end up being fleshed out during Act Four.

By the time the invitation arrives, Victoria and Humphrey are married, probably just back from their honeymoon (to Ipswich or Bath or somewhere of that sort, I imagine). One scene I considered writing was a conversation between them, at home, illustrating their relationship in more detail. (They live in Tristan's old home, by the way. Back in chapter one I mentioned that Victoria's grandfather came to look at it as a potential wedding gift; he bought it and gave it to them after the Thorn family left. How exactly Victoria feels about that would be _fun_ to explore. As a side note, I imagine she may have made one room – perhaps Tristan's – into a nursery, although she isn't pregnant yet.)

The guests hesitantly follow Tristan and Shakespeare through the wall, past the Wall Guard, and into the trees along the other side, until they come to a clearing where the _Caspartine_ is tethered to some massive trees. They carefully climb aboard.

When Humphrey or Victoria ask exactly where they're going, where Tristan lives (they assumed it was close-ish, and more or less expected to walk or drive by wagon), Tristan replies with amusement that "It's... a little farther than Ipswich."

Halfway through the trip there's a lightning storm, and that's understandably scary when you're on a massive flying lightning rod. The villagers stay below deck and the first mate (whom I named James) brings them all a nice hot pot of tea.

I'd also like to have a light-hearted daytime scene showing Tristan interacting with people like Humphrey and the crew at the same time; I considered having him practice fencing with Shakespeare, but that was too much like showing off.

My version of Mr Monday is interested in goods and commerce and such, so once he gets over his wariness he gets into lively conversations about trade with the ex-pirates.

In the book we're told that the villagers of Wall were "told by their grandparents, who got it from _their_ grandparents, that it was deeply, utterly wrong to eat fairy food, to eat fairy fruit, to drink fairy water and sip fairy wine." Considering they're in the country for at least a week, that's something they'd have to be talked out of. On the other hand, Tristan didn't have any such issues and he had every reason to believe this _is_ fairy land, so perhaps that would have to be left out. Could be fun, though.

* * *

This is the only time we really get a good look into Victoria's head. She doesn't know what to think of or expect from Tristan anymore; he constantly surprises her. First he was serious about marrying her, then he managed to cross the wall, then turned her down, and now she finds out he's a _prince_... It's surreal. There are a few touches that flesh out her character a little – not much, as she is very shallow, but things like the fact that she felt a bit guilty when finding out that he'd lost his job over her; she hadn't considered what might happen to _him_ when she asked to be walked home, she was just fixing her own problems.

(For the record, I placed the film as taking place somewhere in March or early April, given that we can see snow on lower hills, though not as low as Wall. The coronation being at the summer solstice puts it somewhere between the nineteenth and twenty-third of June, so only about three months have passed since then.)

Anyway, at dusk, just before they reach the city, Victoria finds Tristan leaning over the rail at the bow of the ship, looking at the sunset and emerging stars. They talk. Victoria accuses him of lying to her, of giving the star to someone else and making fun of her with that 'stardust', though if she were honest, she saw his reaction and knows he wasn't. Tristan replies that he was honestly in love with her and meant to give her the star, but couldn't. Victoria asks (indirectly) about Yvaine, and says to Tristan (something along the lines of), "Did it ever occur to you that she just wanted the star for herself?"

Tristan laughs. "I didn't give her the star, Victoria."

She pauses. "Oh. Well then where is it?" _Why can't I have it?_

"Victoria, Yvaine _is_ the star. The stars are people – sisters. Thousands and thousands of sisters. That shooting star we saw was Yvaine falling out of the sky."

Victoria doesn't believe him. But, by this point they are flying over the mountains and approaching on Mount Huon. There are some clouds in the way and as they fly out of the last, there is a most picturesque and breathtaking view of the city. They fly towards the palace and after a few minutes, a twinkle can be seen on the topmost spire – Yvaine, glowing in the dusky light. Victoria (and the other villagers, who have been told it's time and come out, bags in hand) don't believe it until they're up close and actually see the glowing woman.

Now Yvaine knew, before Tristan left, that she would be meeting the 'famous' Victoria. She's waiting on the platform where people disembark, and after greeting Tristan more warmly than strictly necessary, she turns to Victoria and introduces herself in a tone that gives Tristan just enough time to think, _Oh no..._ before the two women face each other.

If it's at this point that they find out about Tristan's royal blood, Victoria scoffs and accuses them of making it up, to which Yvaine replies, "Oh yes, we borrowed the _city_ and bribed half the population just to make fun of _you_."

Victoria brushes off her hurt feelings (from his rejection) by being snobby. Yvaine is dry-witted and snarky. Nothing Tristan can do will make both women happy, and any acceptance or forgiveness Victoria might have managed since he left dissolves back into resentment. Let's just say it's good that the visit will only last a few days.

* * *

One little thing in the movie that always interested me was exactly _how_ the old guard (Mr Edwards) could beat the hell out of a boy _seventy-nine years_ younger than he. An idea that occurred to me was that, since the wall itself is magical, maybe sitting by it for years on end trying to do the same job allowed the magic to seep into him, giving him strength and agility and a longer life – and would mean that Dunstan got through only by sheer chance of taking him by surprise, as the movie indicates.

However, I think Mr Edwards would refuse to accept that possibility. This next section is a piece of dialogue I wrote for the scene in Wall where Mr Edwards comes to see Dunstan while he and Una are packing. I cut it because it was too theoretical for that part of the story, but it could be adapted for when they're in the city. Here's the original version – either Dunstan or Mr Edwards just made a comment about his age:

Una, who had been quiet but not in the least forgotten, tilted her head and asked, "How long to people here usually live?"

"Not nearly as long as I have," Mr Edwards chuckled. "I'm ninety-seven, madam, and most everyone I grew up with are long in their graves. Keeping all those youngsters away from the gap keeps me fit."

"And you spend _most_ of your time guarding the wall?"

The humour subsided into faintly troubled curiosity. Dunstan asked, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know everything about the wall," she confessed, "but we were taught that it will try to keep people out, almost as though it can think. I'm only guessing, but maybe it's helping you to do it's job."

"No, no, I don't think so."

Dunstan frowned, but was interested enough to keep going despite the unease. "Then why did it let me through – or you, or Tristan?"

"Tristan and I belong there by blood. I suppose you just managed to trick it," she smiled. "It just makes sense to me that a magical barrier would seek out a living guardian and–"

"I keep myself _healthy_," Mr Edwards said stubbornly. "There's no magic in _me_. Good day to you," he said curtly.

(He leaves.)

Una winced. "I'm sorry," she said to Dunstan.

* * *

Hatha, from Act Two, arrives at the palace the day before the ceremonies, and has some trouble getting in since she's clearly lower-class. Yvaine greets her, having been afraid she wouldn't make it. Hatha doesn't have much of a role here, I just didn't want to forget her. She tells Yvaine she and her husband are thinking of changing the name of their inn from _The Slaughtered Prince_ to something more pleasant, like _The Missing Princess_ or _The Star Queen_.

* * *

Speaking of names, at some point (probably before Tristan goes to pick up the English villagers), Una tells Tristan that (someone – maybe the ministers or bishop) are trying to decide on a title to affix to Tristan's name, because it's tradition for all kings nowadays to have a special title. They're saying it should cite his unusual upbringing and 'heroic' defeat of the Lilim witches – Yvaine is miffed that she doesn't get much credit despite their speech at the presentation.

Una tells them that of course, he can turn down any suggestions he likes, and says that at the moment the options are, "King Tristan the First", "King Tristan the Witch Slayer" (he shoots that one down right away), "King Tristan the Just", "King Tristan–"

"The _Mouse_," said Yvaine.

Eventually they agree to allow "King Tristan the Benevolent". In later scenes, Yvaine affectionately teases him with "King Tristan the Moron".

Yvaine might get a title, too – probably just "the Star", although "Queen Yvaine the Sarcastic" might be more accurate. Queens generally don't get titles, but it would be fun to see her make a fuss over it, depending on whether it comes out as in-character for her.

Similarly, if you look at the royal crest hanging behind Yvaine and Tristan at the coronation, you'll see that the banner underneath it reads "Tristan", and there is a large star in the centre. I can't find any pictures of the royal crest before Tristan's coronation, so I'd like to think that the imagery was changed along with the banner. That would be mentioned about here; a design symbolising both of them.

* * *

There are other more practical things that need to be done in preparation for the ceremonies – the clothes, for instance. Wedding clothes are all white (maybe with gold or silver), but the coronation requires an excess of dark blue, symbolising royal blood. I can see Tristan looking at the heavy, furred cloak warily at his test fitting. He and Yvaine are also told they will have to sit for a portrait at some point (perhaps after the wedding).

Also, when they try on the crown, it would be interesting to find that it's too big for him, and constantly slipping down his forehead. I don't want to have him feel that it's too heavy – that's a cliché symbol of burden. Being too big implies that he is too young or inexperienced, which wouldn't help his nerves much.

* * *

About the bishop, and religion in Stormhold:

I imagine that that the people of Stormhold don't believe in much beyond some sort of afterlife (as Septimus mentioned); this seems logical to me, given that magic is so practical to them – the only thing they really don't understand and can't control is death. So in my little world here, the bishop is the leader of a small priestly order that is really only concerned with the afterlife, which explains why the bodies of the dead are treated with great respect, entombed or burned with a combination of social ritual and magic. Though this is basically being a glorified undertaker, it would also be a position of high respect and the bishop would have the honour of crowning the king not because he is 'ordained by God' (somehow I can't see even Una's father being so hypocritical as to make such a claim over the bodies of his brothers), but because it symbolises the king's responsibility for the lives (and, therefore, deaths) of his people. Perhaps he's also responsible for watching over the king's coffin until the burial (and maybe that of princes, too, so all this may well be said when Septimus is buried early in Act Four).

Therefore I also imagine that the priests are connected with the afterlife and nothing else; no one dictates morality among the people – and especially the royalty – of Stormhold. Considering that soothsayers and witches and warlocks are just about everywhere too, I'm guessing these men (and maybe women) are entirely non-magical, and live scattered across the kingdom as ritual undertakers who recite prayers meant to guide the dead to the afterlife.

Dunstan and Tristan would both have been raised as Christians, but as my lovely beta Anna pointed out, they probably wouldn't have too much trouble with "pagan" traditions, given that the Victorian era was a time when people reinvented old traditions. Also, I get the feeling (and stated outright in an earlier chapter) that they only really paid lip service in Wall; Dunstan was a very scientific young man who probably wouldn't think much of the church after being in Market Town, and he raised Tristan, who didn't have any particularly culture-shocked reactions in the film.

* * *

One last thing I would like to include is that of giving the bride / queen a gift – it seemed odd to me that Una would give Yvaine the box with the candle in the middle of the ceremony (or, at least, in front of a big, cheering audience) if it weren't tradition. That she gives a candle, though, is interesting, and here it ties it in to her knowing that because of Yvaine, her son may very well be immortal. I wanted it to be her way of showing that she accepts it, accepts that someday he will abdicate and go off into the sky. It might even tie into religion, given that it means Tristan will never go to the afterlife she believes in.

Or it might just be her sense of humour; as we saw in the prologue, she does have one, and can be rather playful when she's comfortable, so perhaps it would be a bit of a joke, set up by a conversation a few days earlier in which she and Yvaine and Tristan talk about how those candles (or the lack of them) were the means by which their lives turned out the way they have.

* * *

On the day of the ceremonies, Yvaine and Tristan's belongings are packed up by servants and moved up to the king's chamber on the top level.

At this time there would also be some sort of set-up for the (ex-)pirates failing to dress properly and trying, unsuccessfully, to fit in with the high-class crowd. Yvaine and Tristan would talk (or maybe even bet) good-naturedly on whether or not their friends could manage to get through the entire ceremony without making a scene. As we know, they fail.

* * *

Though the last few scenes are critical, there aren't many details which I haven't already covered in the summary above – just a few scattered bits and pieces:

* * *

When Yvaine is starting to worry and panic about Tristan and immortality, she suddenly hurries out of her room, in blue silk dressing gown, and bangs on Tristan's door. A tailor is there, doing the last adjustments made on his ceremonial clothes; Yvaine wasn't expecting anyone else to be there and what she'd nervously rehearsed is wrecked. "_Out_," she commands, pointing.

* * *

About the shared immortality: All the film says is, "no man may live forever, except he who possesses the heart of a star", so from that I extrapolated the story of Selena and Talmor and the idea that eating a star's heart consumes it entirely, but leaves no way to replenish energy, so it eventually wears off, resulting in ageing. My extended theory is that _earning_ a star's heart means that its immortalising energy is shared between the two people, star and human, and in the process enhanced. Therefore the effects don't wear off.

For the human to die, that sharing process has to be broken; in Selena and Lilith's cases, by one of the two not loving the other anymore – not returning the energy. I toyed with the idea that they could make a conscious choice to let go, to make peace, and therefore let Tristan age peacefully anyway, but that seemed too convenient. I also had the idea that there would need to be some sort of proximity as well as the emotion, so that if the two spent years and years apart the energy couldn't be exchanged, but that would mean that Tristan would always depend on Yvaine for his life, which doesn't work too well. The best option is really just to have the situation stay the same as with Selena and her husband, as that leaves the characters with emotional choices.

Not, of course, that any of that's relevant, since we know they go to the sky together after eighty years and eight children, but hey, forgive me; I love coming up with theories.

In any case, as we know, Tristan and Yvaine work it out, accepting that good things don't have to last forever to _be_ good, and that as long as they accept each other's choices without resentment or malice, everything will be all right.

* * *

Afterwards, Yvaine stands out on a balcony and address her mother, who until now has steadfastly refused to speak with her errant daughter. Yvaine tells her what's happened, repeats that she is getting married tomorrow and that she is _not_ going to change her mind. She tells the Moon that she loves her, and asks her not to keep being so angry.

At last the Moon speaks, saying that she still doesn't approve of all this.

Yvaine says, "You don't have to. Just accept it, and be happy for me."

* * *

The wedding takes place at dusk, at Yvaine's request, so that her mother and sisters can watch, and an added bonus is that the sun isn't there to compete with her glow. Tristan wears the white (and gold) shirt, vest, trousers, and boots as in the coronation, but with a white overcoat and the simpler circlet of a prince. Yvaine is radiant in a white and silver dress with lots of multicoloured streaks or ribbons, flowers in her hair, et cetera. She glows so brightly that some people have to shield their eyes as she walks by.

Afterwards, the royal blue and white-furred robes are brought and Yvaine and Tristan take their seats, holding hands. Yvaine's crown is placed on her head first – haven't thought of a reason why, but it's in the film – and her glow of delight has softened so she's back to being visible to everyone.

Tristan's princely circlet is taken away, and this is the moment we see in the film – when he's not wearing a crown of any sort. The ruby is around his neck, as it has been habitually for months now, and he breathes slowly, trying not to be nervous. He looks to his friends, his wife, and his parents, all of whom are with him and supporting him, and believe in him. The crown is placed on his head, and for the first time, he feels like a king.

* * *

And then – well, we know what happens. Gap filled, story complete. But, as I said, there is an epilogue:

* * *

_Epilogue_

On a balcony at the very top of the royal tower, Yvaine stands watching the stars. She is pregnant, and has just been talking to her sisters – Selena, Celeste, and some others. She is about to go to sleep, and has just said goodnight. Tristan is already inside, but partway through the scene he comes and joins her, and the prose changes from a reflective narrative to dialogue.

In the last year, Yvaine and Tristan have settled comfortably into their roles, though at times it still seems absurd that they're _ruling a country_. Una is slowly stepping back and spending more time with Dunstan; they're very good, close friends now, not romantically involved, but might be again, someday. They have years to find out.

Dunstan and Una are especially delighted at the prospect of being grandparents; Una has never had a chance to raise a baby, and has to restrain herself from practically adopting it. It will be noted that she refuses to have another child so that Tristan will never have competition, no matter how she might want to.

Tristan and Yvaine know this child is going to have magical powers like the Lilim did, and that having a warlock or witch on the throne is going to change Stormhold even more than their unconventional leadership. Still, they're not worried about politics yet; they're taking life one day at a time, and right now their most pressing concern is how to tell Dunstan that the handcrafted oak cradle that's been in his family for years really is falling apart, and they're not sure they want to trust it with their baby. Una has already hunted down and destroyed the royal cradle she and all her brothers slept in – the one with somewhat disturbing images of princes killing each other painted on the insides. Tristan suggests sneaking the oak crib out from under Dunstan's nose and having it magically or manually reinforced; Yvaine laughs and says she'll insist on a long walk with her father-in-law to keep him out of the way. She's never had a father before, and likes it.

Several other things have happened in the past year, some of them good, others less so, and as Tristan and Yvaine keep talking, we hear about them:

Not all the Wall villagers left after the ceremony and never looked back. Though he still doesn't want to move away from home, Frank Monday came back to visit twice, and a few people have gone to visit Market Town sometimes, always with one of the Wall Guard soldiers (at their request, not Tristan's, because they're still nervous), and one or two younger folk have actually written to Tristan saying they're thinking of moving in, if that's all right?

Less happily, there was an attack on Yvaine some months earlier, and though her bodyguards (the Star Guard) were quick to act and she wasn't hurt, one of them – Corvin, the adoring one, eager as a puppy – was killed. Yvaine was deeply shaken.

On the other hand, her love of chocolate has become known almost a nation-wide, and there's a running joke (started by Tristan, though she doesn't know it) that no chocolate is ever served at state dinners because the queen will steal from other people's plates.

Then Tristan goes inside, and Yvaine says she'll be along in a minute. The last line of prose describes her gazing up at the stars. The last line is:

_And the stars gazed back._


	18. Appendices

Title: Crowning Tristan  
Author: Sedri  
Rating: PG-13 / T  
Summary: We've seen Tristan grow from a boy to a man, but how does that man become a king? A gapfiller between the end of the battle and the coronation. Movieverse, with elements from the book. Canon pairings. Discontinued; final chapters summarised.

Disclaimer: I do not own _Stardust_ in any way. This is just for fun.

Author's Note: There are three appendices here, and I've put them all in one document rather than three separate posts, since the first and last are quite short.

* * *

Appendices

* * *

Appendix One: The Future

As we know from the deleted scenes (even though I'm going with the original impression of Tristan never growing old), Yvaine and Tristan eventually have eight children, four sons and four daughters, and I'm certain they would _not_ be named by number. I can see them being named after people – Yvaine's sister Lilith (though I imagine that would be shortened to "Lily"), maybe Tristan's grandparents, but for some reason, I always thought of their eldest son being named Gareth.

Also in that deleted scene, when Tristan says "the next king- (of Stormhold)", Yvaine interrupts with, "Or queen!", so I'm sure she would argue fiercely against the idea that only a son could be their heir. Either they'll use the same quest method to decide who rules, or stick with the 'eldest first' idea, in which case it would probably be a quiet relief (for Una and Tristan, mostly) that the first child turns out to be a son.

Una and Dunstan remain close but are never officially married; I like the idea that they have a comfortable, lifelong partnership and friendship that doesn't need validation.

The children are still human and do not have the same glowing sort of heart as their mother; they cannot shine, but can do magic. Because Yvaine loves them, they will all remain young (adults, not infants) until after she leaves for the sky, which explains why they all still look about twenty or thirty when their parents have been ruling for _eighty_ years.

I have ideas for a few little one-shots set around this time: Yvaine showing off her newborn son to her sisters and mother; one of the daughters, Lily, coming to curl up in her parents' bed after having a nightmare; Tristan whispering with her because Yvaine is pregnant and having trouble sleeping. Little fluff stories that contrast the childhood of Una and her brothers, and maybe some with the eight children as adults.

Eventually Tristan, or his son Gareth (who does become the next king), has the wall sealed – England is becoming too technical and too disdainful, and the new generation of villagers in Wall have less and less respect for the secret. There are several incidents, and eventually they agree that it's no longer safe, for either side, to have an open portal.

I hope to write some of these little stories as independent ficlets someday.

* * *

Appendix Two: The History of Stormhold

This is a document I put together halfway through writing act two as a reference for myself while working out the complicated subplots and history lessons that turn up in acts two and three. Much of it has already been said within the prose, but here it is all nicely laid out in chronological sequence, so I thought it worth including.

Please be aware that this is history as I, the Omniscient Author, know it. No single person in Stormhold could narrate this, though the palace scholars could, if they worked with Yvaine and Selena, come fairly close. It's also not a 'full' account of history – obviously, that would take forever. I'm only touching on the main points and sometimes making vague allusions to exactly how something came about, and sometimes say outright that things have been lost or forgotten over time.

Do keep in mind that, though I've taken inspiration from the book, movie, and several other sources, nothing here is in any way canonical. I made it all up.

The history of Stormhold, like that of every other country, begins with the formation of the Earth. Somehow – and it's not really important how – it came to be that some parts of the world were richer in magic than others. This magic soaked into the land and sea, helping to create plants with miraculous properties and equally magical, magnificent animals.

About five thousand years before Tristan Thorn was born, the land was populated only by scattered tribes of people; farmers and hunters who lived off the land, with no social structure beyond small clans and their leaders. Sometimes they fought, for one reason or another, but generally speaking, nothing very interesting happened. Among them were the occasional witches or warlocks of negligible power, who could heal the sick and charm objects, predicting the future with questionable accuracy. Runes came into use from very early on, made out of particularly magical stones or branches, and so it came to be that most clans had a soothsayer or a medicine woman among them, and those traditional roles continued to quietly exist throughout the following millennia, surviving into modern-day Stormhold.

At that time, there was no area of land which one could fence off and call "Stormhold"; it was fluid. Magic was spread throughout the earth and it allowed for extremely flexible geography – neither distances nor landmarks were particularly stable. The magical areas – "fairy lands", so to speak – were essentially superimposed over the top of mundane lands, like a layer of fabric that's full of holes and constantly moving around. An unfortunate man could accidentally wander across one of the ever-moving 'boundaries' and find himself in a different place entirely, possibly doomed to never return home. In this way, people came to live 'in' the magical lands from all across the world, which accounts for the huge variety in cultures that can still be seen in Market Town.

It was also possible, of course, for native creatures born from magical soil to wander into mundane Earth, and thus came the ancient Greek legends of hydras and sphinxes, Chinese dragons, generic ogres, giants, centaurs, nymphs and similar beasts from many, many other cultures. Herbs with healing and other, more sinister magical properties were carried across by people or animals, and took root in the rest of the world, which back then still had enough magic in its soil to support them. Even ordinary people could use these plants for potions or other magical purposes, provided they knew exactly how to do it.

One day, a star fell. This was Selena, Yvaine's older sister, who fell by accident and was trapped, for at the time there was no such thing as a Babylon candle. While her mother, the Moon, worked hard to teach her the magical theory she needed to make her way home, Selena came to appreciate and even love life on Earth, particularly animals such as unicorns, which helped her and were, in thanks, accorded special favours from the Moon. Selena began to enjoy her life on Earth, and when she realised that something was threatening the magical lands and creatures, she put aside her own quest for home in an effort to protect them.

The fairy lands were starting to disappear. As humans became more and more 'civilised' they began establishing cities and exploring the world, mapping it, and their disbelief was what pushed the fairy lands away – poaching them, so to speak – and as a little more magic died every day, so did the creatures that depended on it to survive. Selena was one of them.

To protect herself and her friends, Selena used the magic of the land, with the knowledge her mother had taught her and the help of magical people she had tutored, to erect massive, metaphysical walls; barriers that sealed off the magical world, holding it together in one solid, unchanging shape that would 'float', so to speak, across the surface of Earth, never touching it and beyond its influence. She succeeded, and the fairy lands were sealed off entirely, self-contained and protected from the destructive disbelief of humans in the mundane world.

It is important to note that, by so doing, Selena also robbed the rest of Earth of its magic. What little of it remained in the land and sea was not enough to sustain the lives of those amazing beasts that appear to us now only in myth; that's why they suddenly stopped being a real threat to humans and faded into mere legend. A few plants survived, simple things with minor magical properties, but by and large, Earth lost its wonder entirely.

(It's also interesting to point out that this is why Tristan, and the few others like him, have the ability to know exactly where things are within the fairy lands. The distant ancestor who passed down the talent, by virtue of being a witch or warlock, was closely connected to the natural magic in the earth. That connection, when it springs up in the family, allows Tristan to instinctively find his way around in Stormhold, but not on Earth.)

Once her task was accomplished, Selena became a legend herself, and the story of the beautiful fallen star that protected the people of Stormhold turned into a myth that was passed down as folklore for the next four millennia. Selena herself fell in love with a mortal who eventually broke her heart, and she returned to the sky some time later.

Shortly afterwards, another star, Lilith, deliberately fell. She had no great impact on history herself, but she gave birth to three exceptionally magical daughters: Lamia, Mormo and Empusa, who eventually became known as the Lilim witches. They learned from their mother (who in turn had learned from the Moon and Selena), more magical theory than any other mortal witches and warlocks, and with their innate talent, they were undoubtedly the most powerful witches in the world. They were also remarkably amoral, though Lilith was blind to it. Vain and greedy, and perhaps secretly terrified, these sisters eventually murdered their mother to steal her heart, eating it and gaining immortality. At this point, they believed that one heart would sustain them for eternity; there was no reason to think otherwise, for they were the first immortal beings to also use magic.

Between their power, beauty, magical knowledge and long lives, it was no wonder that the ordinary people of the (as-yet-unnamed) fairy lands saw them as goddesses – an idea which they undoubtedly encouraged with well-publicised charitable acts. They sought power, and got it, but not by force or threat; in fact, they were seen as merciful angels. They offered magical solutions to hard work and dangerous illnesses, saving lives and appearing to care deeply for the plight of those less fortunate. Whether there was any truth in this, one cannot know.

What is known is that the people eventually became dependant on this generosity. Within a few generations, magic was a tool as common as ploughs or hammers, and no one could imagine surviving without it. In addition, from very early on, the sisters invited everyone with magical talents to their home in the palace of Carnadine (which may or may not have once been a city rather than just a manor; no one is sure) for training so they could use the full range of their abilities. This was the origin of the sister- and brother-hoods of witches and warlocks that still exist in modern-day Stormhold. But before they were taught anything, every apprentice was forced to take a magically-binding oath that declared, among other things, that the apprentice would serve the Lilim sisters above all others, that they would never use their skills against the sisters in any way, and that they would never teach anything they learned to another witch or warlock who hadn't already taken the same oath. Thus, the sisters controlled all magical practices. (This oath was also the origin of the ordinances that govern the sister- and brotherhoods in modern-day Stormhold.)

With this control, and their god-like images, the Lilim took a rag-tag collection of farmers and hunters living in the same area and turned it into a real kingdom – or, more correctly, a queendom. For nearly a millennium they reigned as the rightful monarchs, and by and large, those were good years. The sisters were not tyrants, and there were no enemies to threaten the people.

Eventually, however, the magic of Lilith's heart did begin to run out, worn down by their constant use of magic. Confused and horrified by the slow decay of their bodies, the sisters neglected the needs of their people in favour of experimenting with spells and potions; they called all their pupils to Carnadine to help with the research, away from their 'posts' in scattered villages. These witches and warlocks would have been told about how they became immortal in the first place because it was the only thing they knew of that stopped aging, which is how the people of Stormhold came to know so much detail about the value of a star's heart.

The queendom did not suddenly turn into a tyranny; at first, the people only suffered from the loss of their local magicians, which went on long enough to seriously threaten their livelihoods. They sent complaints, then pleas, all of which were ignored. Then the

sisters began to ignore their responsibilities completely, becoming more and more frantic as their bodies aged. They forced their pupils to work day and night, and as the common people became louder in their cries for help, also began using magic as a weapon to control by fear and force. By this time, their image as divinities was falling apart.

Then people began to go missing; they were taken to Carnadine and used in horrible experiments. The few that escaped came home mutilated, and outright rebellion simmered. A handful of people tried to overthrow the Lilim, and all failed, except one: A man named Galdon, the son of small, insignificant clan, organised his countrymen into an effective resistance movement, and with small raiding parties that used cunning, not brute force, they broke into Carnadine and freed the prisoners, as well as the witches and warlocks who had been practically enslaved. Though the magicians were bound by their oaths not to work directly against the Lilim, they could help in other ways, and eventually the queens' rule fell apart entirely.

The sisters, despairing but not yet as cold and bitter as they would become, locked themselves away in what was left of Carnadine, magically sealing off the huge, foreboding canyon that, for a few centuries, was said to be haunted. It was eventually forgotten. The sisters themselves waited centuries for a star to fall, but thanks to the Moon's strict rules, none did until Cirra, in about 1450 CE, and that was an accident. Knowing nothing of her family's history on Earth, she blindly trusted the kind old ladies who helped her. Her heart, like Lilith's, was torn out and eaten, but because she didn't love the sisters at all, its effects didn't last more than a century or two. One can only assume that it was then that the witches finally realised it was their extensive use of magic that counteracted their youth. Why they didn't make an attempt to reclaim their thrones while still young again is a mystery.

Having almost single-handedly overthrown the Lilim, Galdon was considered a hero. The people adored him and gladly offered him lordship over their kingdom. He was crowned Primus, the First King, and is the first known member of the royal bloodline. It's doubtful that he actually had blue blood; that trait would have come later, probably by magical means. Neither was there any tradition of sons murdering each other for the throne; that, too, evolved over the next three thousand years. Galdon named the kingdom _Stormhold_ because it had held against the 'storm' of evil that weathered it, and once his people were once again thriving, began to build a city (that was never named) and palace at the peak of Mount Huon.

With the crowning of Galdon, the First Age ended and the Second Age began.

The First King and his descendants were good for Stormhold. They established more detailed law and justice systems, taking more control of day-to-day life than the sisters, who generally let their people fight out their differences without much care for who was right or wrong. They hunted down dangerous beasts and showed more respect for scattered nomadic clans and sentient non-humans like unicorns, who were generally ignored by the Lilim until they posed some sort of threat. Galdon was not an exceptionally moral man, but he was decent, and saw a chance to gain something by forging good relationships with everyone he could, bringing everyone under one banner.

(To briefly go off on a linguistic tangent, it was somewhere during this golden age of expansion that King Tridecaseptimus began the tradition of naming his sons by number, and that tradition continued unchanged up until the crowning of King Tristan. However, it's interesting to note that over time, the names of royal _daughters_ changed quite a bit. At first, when Stormhold still had some vague memory of mundane Earth's cultures, the kings tried to keep to very Latin names, and so the sons were all given ordinal names and the daughters given cardinal numbers. However, there was a great deal of Greek floating around as well, and since the names of daughters rarely appeared in history, there was a lot less pressure to keep their names strictly the same. In this way, the names Quarta, Quinta, Sexa, Septa, and Nona, among others, were sometimes replaced with Tetra, Penta, Hexa, Hepta, and Ennea. Sometimes the Latin versions would be preferred anyway, but after three thousand years no one remembered that "Latin" was once a language, so between that and normal linguistic shifts, any adherence to the original rules was lost. It was also largely a matter of taste, so after fifty or sixty generations, the kings and queens had some choice as to what they would name their daughters.)

Somewhere in those first thousand years, part of one of Selena's barriers was broken, forging a connection between the worlds again, and the damage manifested as a physical wall with a gap in it. It acted like an anchor, and just happened to appear in what we now call England. At the time, the village of Wall did not exist – not even close, as this was about 1000 BCE – and there was certainly no one trying to keep people from going through. Many didn't even realise they had travelled to another world, at least not until people from Stormhold found that their magical tools wouldn't work. So, while the people of Stormhold came to know about the wall, telling stories of how strange a place it was, wondering how people cold live without magic, there was little interest in actually going through it. The native people on Earth would wander through occasionally, usually adapting to life in Stormhold society and bringing with them culture and traditions from the mundane world that slowly, but steadily, took root in the magical world. This would also explain why, although there are many human races in Stormhold, the dominant culture and styles seem to be English.

Of course, history on Earth continued just as we know it, and eventually the village of Wall was founded somewhere between 1100 and 1400 CE. This would have been when Christianity was already dominant in the area, and it's quite understandable that the blatant and casual use of magic in Stormhold would have frightened English villagers. They declared that it was a Very Bad Thing to travel across the wall and established a guard to ensure that no one did. It is likely that there was no need to keep it a secret back then, and only as time went on, moving towards the more scientific age, did the villagers quietly agree to keep knowledge of the wall to themselves, probably after being ridiculed by outsiders or for fear that someone naive person might try to pass through and end up being killed.

By 1450 CE, when Cirra fell, Stormhold was recognisable to modern-day inhabitants. The blue-blooded royals maintained a fair if somewhat stagnant kingdom, in which magical trade was essential. The brother- and sisterhoods of witches and warlocks existed in a very scattered fashion, with no leaders, held together only by the binding oath that had to be taken before anyone could be taught to use their talents. The palatial city on Mount Huon was grand and elegant, housing the royal family as well as most of the kingdom's various noblemen. By that time, the hierarchy had gathered many additional layers, with governors in charge of certain counties and mayors in every city, the highest ranking of which made up the royal court. None of the noble families were ever descended from princesses and younger brothers as is the case on Earth; they came from knights and retainers who had earned rank by valour and loyalty to the crown. The only family connections to royalty came when a red-blooded daughter was chosen to be the next queen.

On a more widespread scale, Stormhold had long since ceased to be the only kingdom in the fairy lands. It was, to be sure, the oldest and largest, but over time breakaway political factions and colonising efforts went off into the far parts of the magical land and established their own little countries. This did not often happen without a fight, but happened nonetheless and so Stormhold eventually formed diplomatic relations with other human kingdoms. There were some wars here and there, but no long-term feuds, probably because Stormhold remained exceptionally powerful.

These various wars and shifts of power in the fairy lands caused a number of new Ages to be declared, and the Fifth Age began a few hundred years before the birth of Tristan Thorn.

By this time, Yvaine had returned from her wanderings around the far side of the galaxy and had become utterly fascinated by life on Earth. She, like her sisters, knew what had happened to Cirra, but few of them knew what the witches looked like, for their mother and Selena were more concerned with scaring the stars into keeping well away from Earth than teaching them how to stay safe if they ever ended up there. Yvaine heeded the warnings but they couldn't keep her from being enraptured by human life. She watched almost all the time, and was repeatedly scolded for getting too close.

In Wall, the traditional guard was well established and taken very seriously, though the knowledge of exactly what was being guarded against had faded and largely been lost. On the other side, the people of Stormhold remained aware of the portal's existence, but it was remembered mainly as a monument to whatever calamitous event broke the hole in the first place. Those who had travelled into England returned with stories of an unfriendly world with strange gadgets and no magic, keeping interest to a minimum. England became good for little more than children's bedtime stories, and serious people usually paid no attention at all.

And so, life went on quietly on both sides, continuing in its own plodding, steady way until a young man named Dunstan Thorn decided to join the long line of human explorers determined to prove that no magical worlds had ever existed.

And we all know how _that_ turned out.

* * *

Appendix Three: Selena and Lilith

This is an expansion on Selena and Lilith's lives, essentially a retelling of what Selena told Yvaine during their second window-chat in chapter nine, but there are some more details that she neglected to include. It builds directly on appendix two.

Selena was always a calm and patient star, grown and mature long before the Earth ever came into being, and until the day she stumbled and fell down onto its grass and soil, she never paid much attention to it. Once there, she came to appreciate the beauty of a more physical world and to love the rich variety of life that was packed into every corner. After a few decades on Earth she stopped using the word "trapped", and when she learned that the magical world was being threatened, Selena set aside her own wishes in order to help protect others.

Once her magical barriers had been constructed and she had accomplished things beyond any native's wildest dreams, Selena still didn't have the means to return to the sky, but at that point, she didn't want to. She had met and fallen in love with a mortal man named Talmor. They married and lived happily for a long time, until he outlived his brothers and sister. His grief turned to bitterness, which turned to resentment – both of his long life, and of the wife responsible for it. He left, breaking her heart, and because their love was no longer shared, neither was the starlight that kept him alive. It was like breaking a circuit. He died, and was grateful for it.

Selena, heartbroken, turned her entire focus to finding a way to leave Earth. Her own bitterness and resentment overrode any love she had for the land or the creatures, and the Moon, with no regard for the difference between one person and his race, quickly came to hate all humans for what 'they' did to her precious daughter. With her mother's knowledge and the aid of her pupils, Selena invented the first Babylon candle and returned to the sky.

The Moon, relieved and determined not to let any of her daughters suffer the same way again, immediately took Selena aside to work out how they were going to ensure that. At first, it seemed logical to simply tell Selena's story to all the stars, scaring them out of taking any chances. Unfortunately, a very young star named Lilith was with her mother at the time, and heard the whole thing.

Lilith was a dreamer, a romantic, and was enraptured by the idea of love that was passionate and romantic, not the slow-paced love shared with her sisters and mother. Lilith was naïve, flighty and rebellious. Casually dismissing the heartache her sister had suffered, she deliberately fell to Earth to experience the wonders of physical life for herself.

Selena and the Moon were horrified, but despite their outraged commands and desperate pleas to return, Lilith just laughed and shrugged it off. Earth was her playground, and she delighted in the feel of real grass beneath her feet, the fresh breeze on her skin, and other such things that don't exist in the sky. She quickly met mortal men, but unlike Selena, she found no love with them – nothing that lasted, anyway. Instead she was left with three daughters, all with different fathers (none of whom stayed with her), and Lilith loved them dearly. They were Lamia, Mormo and Empusa, later known as the Lilim witches.

Being born of a star, an exceptionally magical creature, these girls were far more powerful than any of the 'natural' witches or warlocks in the world. In addition, they learned from their mother, who in turn learned from Selena (who had been trying to teach her how to get home), and therefore they had full use of their talents. Lilith wasn't a particularly good mother; she meant well, but she was still very young, irresponsible, and often careless. She failed to instil any sense of morals in her daughters, vaguely assuming that they would somehow know anyway. The girls grew up spoiled, vain, and remarkably selfish.

They were also mortal. No matter how highly magical she was, Lilith was not her mother, and only the Moon is capable of creating another (self-sustaining) immortal. Of course, because Lilith loved her children, they stayed young and healthy for centuries, and for a while Selena and even the Moon relaxed a little, thinking that everything would be all right anyway.

Then the sisters began to age. Perhaps there was some quarrel between mother and daughters, perhaps they resented needing her, or perhaps their selfish natures simply won out, but the love they shared soured, and their youth started to fade. Lilith turned to the sky for help, terrified that she might lose her children to age, but there was none to be given. The sisters, on the other hand, deduced what neither stars nor Moon had ever considered – that eating the heart of a star, the core of her energy and life source, would give them a source of immortal energy.

And so, one day, they attacked their mother and tore her heart out. That she loved them only enhanced the potency of her heart, and after the first bite, they were immortal. No matter how much of the surrounding, youth-giving energy they wasted with their use of magic (the counteractive effect of which they discovered about a thousand years too late), the actual heart, however torn and mutilated, would keep them from ever actually dying of age.

The Moon and Selena were horrified. Having concealed Lilith's fall from the others already, waiting for her to come home, this was the final straw. They decided to never, ever tell another star the full story, instead telling any sister who asked (and there were few, only those who had known her) that Lilith had fallen accidentally and been brutally murdered by humans. Yvaine knew nothing about this, for she had never met Lilith and at the time was wandering around the far side of the galaxy. None of the sisters were told what would happen if a mortal ate their hearts.

After Yvaine made her decision to stay on Earth, Selena weighed up the risks and changed her mind. She told her sisters everything, asking them to remember Lilith both as a warning and an honour to her memory. It cannot be said whether or not all the remaining stars heeded that warning as they should have, but no star was ever killed on Earth again.

In other words:

_They all lived Happily Ever After_


End file.
